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COPYRIGHT. 1909 ^>- \^^\ 

By Frederick Tibbetts * 



CIa.A, 34 7181 
AUG 28 1909 



L- r^ 



The writer*s custom is to dedicate 

The published work to friends, both tried 

and true. 
I have no wish to quit the beaten path, 
So I just dedicate this book to you. 

-T. 



Pictures in words are for memory's gallery 
where colors never fade. 



CONTENTS 



The Finger of Old Torch 


7 


Just as She Pleased 


9 


In Return 


18 


Life's Players 


19 


All Love is Blind 


25 


The Last Five 


. 27 


The Old Year and the New 


36 


Lights and Shades 


. 37 


Love .... 


44 


Actah 


. 45 


Nowhere 


58 


The Vestu Trail 


. 59 


The Moonglade . 


72 


A Christmas Masque . 


. 75 


Marbles .... 


83 


A Picture Sweetheart 


. 85 


Violet .... 


92 


My Yacht . 


. 92 


Wild Roses 


93 


A Sunburned Nose 


. 108 


A Pullman Porter 


109 


Two Flags . . . . 


. 121 


Willie Poore 


122 


A Bright Fellow 


. 123 


Next to You 


135 


URAJ2BEZ . 


. 136 


A Model Wife . 


137 


Be Right . . . . 


. 150 



Mem'ry's to the mind as dawn is to the day. 
Each lifts the shadows and drives the mists away. 



THE FINGER OF OLD TORCH Seven 

THE FINGER OF OLD TORCH 



Of all the waters cradled by their shores; 
In rivers, lakes and seas and earth's spring 

pores ; 
The silvers, azures, em'ralds of Torch Lakt, 
In its bravura numbers, 
And in its placid slumbers. 
No more poetic dream the artist's brush may 
wake. 

Between the ranging hills the waters play, 
Reflecting all the glories of the day; 
And if 'tis forest's wilds one loves the best, 

Old Torch just marks the changes. 

And parts the wooded ranges 
That skirt its verdant borders East and V/est. 

How often, when I've thought of peace and 

rest, 
I've found them both on Torch's billowed 

breast ; 
Until one eve I saw a finger there; 
Just point in one direction — 
Just point without deflection — 
I saw it in the water and the air. 



Eight THE FINGER OF OLD TORCH 

It held its point wherever I might steer; 
Though North or South, its constancy was 

clear. 
It was no time for idle thought nor jest, 
To rest my oar and linger. 
And watch the pointing finger, 
That never pointed true North, South nor 
West. 

Unless I closed my eyes, *twas ever there. 
Its steady pointing seem.ed to me a dare. 
Resolved to follow on and find the light. 

And with the finger haunting. 

My courage almost daunting, 
I sought the shore to solve the phantom's 
flight. 

1 found a gem. Old Torch had crystallized 
Her depth and azure lights, a jev/el, prized. 
A blue-white diamond 'twas the waters kissed. 

'Twas mine without the asking; 

'Twas mine without the masking. 
The finger of Old Torch dissolved in mist. 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED Ni 



me 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED 



"Going up," called the elevator boy, and I 
stepped into the suspended car, and inquired 
for George Barton, attorney. "Tenth," 
promptly responded his highness, "Ups and 
Downs," and in another moment I was walk- 
ing into the elegant offices of George Bar- 
ton, the prominent corporation attorney, just 
as from an inner room came in harsh tones: 
"Blame you, no sir, not a cent." 
There was no one in the room I was enter- 
ing. A typewriter occupied its accustomed 
place near a window. It was dust covered, 
which indicated that it had received neither at- 
tention nor usage for several days. The after- 
noon was nearing its close, and the view from 
the open windows disclosed the flat tops of 
numerous buildings in a broadening circle, 
and, for a mile or two, the gabled roofs of all 
classes of home buildings, some standing out 
boldly against the green beyond; others par- 
tially hidden by the graceful elms with which 
the city was plentifully grown. From the out- 
skirts of this city of elms to the partially hid- 



Ten JUST AS SHE PLEASED 

den coast line, a public park and a wide ex- 
panse of nature invited to restful quiet from 
the noisy whirl of the city. Beyond, sky and 
water joined in such gentle blending of color 
at this particular time of day that only a guess 
could locate the horizon. 

On account of the forcible exclamation that 
I had overheard on entering, I deemed it un- 
wise to disturb the speaker. While I gazed on 
the sea and all between, the earnest conversa- 
tion was carried on in subdued, almost inaudi- 
ble tones. 

George Barton, Jr., and I were college 
chums, and I had often heard him say that 
there was no love lost between his father, 
George Barton, Sr., and himself; in fact, the 
senior considered the junior no more nor less 
than a fool. On this particular day, George Jr. 
had decided to tell his father that marriage 
with a most estimable widow necessitated an 
increase of allowance. It was George Sr.*s 
reply I had unwittingly overheard. George 
Jr. came from his father's private office saying : 

"We leave this evening for two months, and 
as Paris is out of the question, I guess we 
will take Oliver's cottage at the Palms. I 
wish you would come and make us a visit, 
father." 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED Eleven 

"No! No!" 

I could hear his chair creak an accompani- 
ment as he turned to his desk. 

Of course George Jr. saw me. He shook 
hands silently, as he hastily drew me from 
the office. 

"Going down/' called the approaching ele- 
vator boy. "Down," replied George Jr., and 
we descended to the street before another 
word was spoken. 

"Awful glad to see you, old man. Good 
many things happened since I left you at Mon- 
treal three months ago. As you surely have 
guessed by this time, I am m-arried. V\/'ho? 
Listen," and he whispered to me the familiar 
name of an old acquaintance who had taken 
the long journey and left behind a beautiful 
daughter and a charming widow yet in her 
womanly prime of life. 

George Jr. laughed as he told me how 
acquaintances and neighbors gossiped about 
the "daughter's intended," as he called from 
time to time, never guessing that the mother 
and not the daughter was the shrine of his de- 
votion, until the announcement of the quiet 
marriage. George Jr. admitted his paternal 
feeling for the daughter, and declared she 



Twelve JUST AS SHE PLEASED 

should ever find in a fatherly devotion a safe- 
guard from all distasteful alliances. 

A note, a few days later, brought assurances 
of the safe arrival at the Palms of Mr. and 
Mrs. Barton, Jr. After a time I again visited 
the offices of George Barton, Sr. I found him 
at his desk. A new typewriter, which had 
taken the place of the old one, near the win- 
dow, was being operated by a handsomely 
dressed and altogether attractive young 
woman, who announced my arrival by carry- 
ing my card to the elder Barton. I recognized 
her at a glance, but as she did not deign to 
acknowledge the acquaintanceship, I con- 
cealed my surprise at finding her in her pres- 
ent position. 

My professional business being soon fin- 
ished, I was departing, when George Barton, 
Sr., addressed me, as he called it, on a matter 
of private concern. 

"You are acquainted, I understand, with 
Miss Herbert and her family?" I replied in 
the affirmative, when he said that he desired 
to confide in me and to employ me in looking 
after certain settlements. 

I readily guessed the nature of his disclos- 
ures. About the time of the departure of 
George Jr. and wife, the young Miss Herbert 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED Thirteen 

had called, presenting numerous commenda- 
tory letters, and requesting a position as aman- 
uensis. As she proved to be, upon trial, not 
only an expert, but an exceedingly attractive 
additon to the office, George Barton, Sr., of- 
fered her a permanent position, and especially 
favorable remuneration. Not many weeks 
had passed before the old gentleman began to 
realize the great pleasure he daily enjoyed in 
association with the cheerful, happy disposi- 
tion of his employee. A holiday excused her 
from official duties, and that day was the 
longest and dreariest in George Sr.'s life. It 
was his custom to dictate correspondence to 
her, and chat between letters. He told her 
all about his past life. He even spoke of 
George Jr., although in not a particularly 
complimentary way. He told her of his early 
love for and devotion to George Jr.*s mother. 
He was a kindly old man in his way, and when 
he finally, though in decidedly professional 
manner, told her of his love for her, promising 
her everything that heart could desire, she 
gently reached up, and placing her hand over 
his mouth, shook her head as if in doubt. She 
glanced toward the windows, and a tear glis- 
tened in her eye. 

As she stood trembling at his side, he urged 



Fourteen JUST AS SHE PLEASED 

her not to give her answer to his earnest re- 
quest that she become his wife until she could 
willingly speak that always hoped-for "Yes." 

Not many weeks had passed, and she had 
spoken that little word which carries with it 
the assurance of the conquest won. It was to 
make the final settlements with Miss Her- 
bert's parents that I was engaged. I promised 
to acquaint them of his most liberal offer, it 
being to present Margaret Herbert, on their 
wedding day, with a check for one hundred 
thousand dollars, to do with *'just as she 
pleased." 

I could hardly contain my thoughts until 
I could reach the street. I immediately wrote 
to George Jr., betraying professional secrets, 
although in the line of duty. The terms of 
settlement were satisfactory to Miss Herbert's 
parents, and the wedding day decided upon. 

Never did church choir and organ harmo- 
nize in more delightful unison than when they 
proclaimed the blushing maid the bride of 
the white-haired counselor. Never did young 
gallant devote more careful attention and lov- 
ing care to a bride than did this man of long 
years of lonesome life. Within an hour of the 
ceremony he handed to his wife a certified 
check for one hundred thousand dollars, pay- 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED Fifteen 

able to her order. The amount was only a 
small portion of his possessions, but in the 
weeks to come he carefully noted the paid 
checks as they were returned by his banker. 
He had not asked his wife what she intended 
doing with the money. He thought the re- 
turned check would show that, and so it did. 
He recognized it one morning, and hastily 
turned it over to note the endorsement, and he 
read this: "Pay to the order of Mrs. George 
Barton, Jr." Signed, "Mrs. George Bar- 
ton, Sr." 

"Tenth," called the elevator boy, and George 
Jr. walked into his father's office. 

"What does this mean, sir?" inquired the 
old gentleman, handing the check to George 
Jr. George Jr., taking the check in his left 
hand, extended his right hand and congratu- 
lated his father in the heartiest manner. 

"But this check; why is it made payable to 
your wife?" 

"I can tell you, George," said Mrs. George 
Sr., entering just at the moment. "You prom- 
ised to let me do just as I wished with that 
check, and as I have everything, and you, 
George, I gave the check to mother and father 
in partial payment of a debt of gratitude." 

"A debt of grat—," turning to George Jr. 



Sixteen JUST AS SHE PLEASED 

'*Then you are my son, and I am your son- 
in-law." 

"Yes, father, I am your father-in-law." 

"A fool for a father-in-law," said the old 
gentleman, with some heat. 

"Yes, father, we come high, but you must 
have us. Bless you, my children. Mother and 
I are off to Paris. Only have time to say 
goodbye." 

"Going down.'* "Down," and the paternal 
son-in-law and his bride were left to study 
the perplexing question of relationship. 

Years later, when the respective heirs of 
this strangely mixed quartette tried to estab- 
lish claims of priority, there was only one 
point upon which their almost maddened 
minds could agree, and that was, that not 
even lawyers should be allowed to do just as 
they please; for George Sr., who was the 
father of George Jr., became by marriage the 
son-in-law of his own son, and George Jr. be- 
came the father-in-law of his own father. 
Consequently the son of George Jr. was 
George Sr.'s brother-in-law as well as his 
grandson, and the son of George Sr. was 
George Jr.*s brother and also his grandson. 
George Jr.*s son was the nephew of George 
Sr.'s son, as was George Sr.'s son his uncle. 



JUST AS SHE PLEASED Seventeen 

As George Jr. was George Sr.'s father-in-law, 
his son became the brother-in-law of his own 
grandfather, and George Sr. became the great- 
grandfather of his own son and grandfather 
to himself. 

Other than this deponent saith not. You 
have the facts to do with just as you please. 



Eighteen IN RETURN 

IN RETURN 

We get in life just what we trade for; 

Sometimes delivery is delayed. 
We fool ourselves in hope to get more; 

But in the end we've merely played. 

We've played the game and made a good run ; 

We've played it too, both loose and fast. 
We've won a goal and lost the next one; 

We've grieved a while — forgot the past. 

"To give and take," a phrase that is pat, 
You cannot always win the stake, 

For he who gives may then be sure that 
It soon will be his turn to take. 

In making trades with one another, 
A smile, a tear, may win a friend, 

A helping hand may gain a brother, 
A frown, a kick, may friendship end. 

So in this life just carry gladness, 
Disburse alike to friend and foe. 

For you will find enough of sadness 
As through life's ins and outs you go. 

Just lend the helping hand so cheerful, 
Show one and all your happy side; 

And of the outcome ne'er be fearful 

When you have swelled the gladsome tide. 



LIFE'S PLAYERS Nineteen 

LIFE'S PLAYERS 



What scenes of indescribable beauty were 
set here and there in this vast theatre of 
mother earth. Surely 'twas a master's hand 
that guided the rivulet down the mountain 
side, through the valley and on, to lose itself 
in the ocean's depths. 'Twas a master's hand 
that reared the mountain peaks in gigantic 
splendor. 'Twas a master's hand that peopled 
his stage with countless millions of diversified 
characters, some to play leading parts and 
many others to fill those so absolutely neces- 
sary characters of supernumeraries. 

A player might be cast for such parts in 
life that his senses would never receive a jar. 
His eyes might rest only on symmetrical 
forms; his ears might hear only harmonious 
strains of soothing music; his nostrils might 
never be confronted by harsher scent than the 
perfume of the rose; his touch might never 
rest on anything coarser than a baby's dim- 
pled cheek— but what part would he play in 
this life of ours? 

Steel is tempered by harsh contrasts, as is 
life's player. He may bask today in scenes 



Twenty LIFE'S PLAYERS 

of grandeur, 'neath the shade of lofty moun- 
tain tops; on the mossy banks of rushing 
streams; in the seclusion of a comfortable 
home, surrounded by those he holds dearer 
than all. Tomorrow he may have to stem the 
current of the river and climb the mountain 
side, leave the home and those he loves, and 
answer life's calls to duty. When duty's com- 
mands are obeyed, life's player may sometimes 
return to the paths he loves. There is no more 
beautiful experience than that enjoyed by the 
player who has about played his part, who has 
stemmed his rivers, who has climbed his 
mountains, and is then cast to play his last act 
amid the comforts of home, cherished by those 
dear to him, rounding out by kindly actions 
the part he has played so well. 

Beneath an old oak tree sat a straight and 
rugged figure. His eye still flashed the thought 
of an active mind, although the mass of white 
hair truthfully told his few years yet remain- 
ing. There had been, in all his later life, but 
few afternoons he could not have been seen 
under the old oak, which seemed to conjure 
for him memories of the past, for all who had 
spoken him well, knew that he had planted 
the acorn from which the lofty oak had grown. 
It was an old story, and scarcely a living be- 



LIFE'S PLAYERS Twenty-One 

ing in the little village but had heard it years 
before. 

Possibly on account of lack of hearers, pos- 
sibly from the fact that few strangers came 
that way, the old man's eye brightened when 
he noted the approach of one who had never 
lounged in the shade of the oak. 

As the stranger came nearer he was greeted 
in that particularly courteous manner in which 
years bears to years. 

The old man's welcome being as grateful to 
the stranger as was the shade of the oak, small 
wonder that he sought rest and a breath to 
cool. 

*'Been walking far, sir?'* 

"All my life" ; and then fearing his meaning 
might not be quite clear, added, '*My waking 
hours." 

Seeing that the stranger was little inclined 
to talk, but content to listen, the old man 
said: "Well, sir; I have lived my life here — 
right here near this oak tree. I was born in 
the old log cabin back behind the house yon- 
der, and I am sure if I should wander many 
miles from this old tree something would hap- 
pen it, as it did to the others. This, and that 
one there, are all that are left of six, and that 



Twenty-Two LIFE'S PLAYERS 

one 'pears to be d3dng. It never was as strong 
and thrifty as my old tree." 

While the old man was speaking, he placed 
his hands caressingly on the oak, and as the 
stranger appeared to be interested, he con- 
tinued his story: 

"There were six of us boys that always gath- 
ered the first berries in spring and the last 
walnuts in autumn. We caught two-pounders 
on pin hooks down there in the run where the 
sunlight shows silver. We went to school to- 
gether, and when the little church off there 
was built, we each had a wedding — that is, all 
but Jim — ^Jim was a little more to me than the 
others, for you see, Jim and I were brothers. 
We might just as well have all been brothers, 
for we would have missed one just as much 
as any other; but 'twas Jim who went away 
and we never heard from him again. 

"It does seem sometimes, when I sit out 
here, that I cannot live another day without 
Jim, and then I look up and find the old tree 
still living when the others, one by one, have 
died and been burned for firewood. 

"The day I was twelve years old, we six 
gathered some acorns. We planted our larg- 
est ones here by the road. Jack put his down 
there by that rock and thirty years later light- 



LIFE'S PLAYERS Twenty-Three 

ning split the tree half and half, and within 
a year Jack was found dead out in the meadow, 
after a storm. Next to Jack's acorn Jim 
planted his. Soon after he went away his tree 
died and we have never heard from Jim. Next 
coming this way Will planted his acorn and 
twenty years ago Will died in the winter time 
and his tree put out but few buds in the spring 
and was chopped down the following autumn. 
There, where that tree stands, Albert planted 
his acorn and while he has been dead three 
years his tree still lives, but it isn't what it 
should be for thrift. Albert married Mar- 
garet. It was Margaret Jim loved. That's 
why Jim went away. 

Between this tree and that, George planted 
the acorn that never grew, and here I planted 
mine and it has grown to always welcome the 
children home from school, and the old folks 
who come to enjoy its shade." 

As the old man ceased speaking the stranger 
arose and pointing, said: "Down by the rock 
was Jack's tree. Poor old Jack Conley. Next 
came Jim's tree? No, Harry you're wrong. 
Will came next, then Albert, and the one that 
lives is Jim's tree — my old oak. Harry, don't 
you know me? It's Jim, your own brother." 

It was with a glistening eye and a shaking 



Twenty-Four LIFE'S PLAYERS 

frame that leaned against the old oak, that 
Harry, for they were boys again, stretched out 
his arms and welcomed his brother home. 

Full many hours they sat under first one 
old oak and then the other until Jim had told 
a life's story and listened to another. 

It is possible to see the brothers any pleas- 
ant afternoon under one or the other of the 
oaks and oftentimes they have an always wel- 
come companion, a charming old lady, her con- 
tented, smiling face, wreathed in a garland of 
silver, whom the brothers call Margaret and 
who in turn calls them Jim and Harry. 

As the ocean in its tide, human life finds in 
love, the force that carries far o'er the sea and 
casts upon some friendly shore the heart in 
need, but in need no more. 



ALL LOVE IS BLIND Twenty-Five 

ALL LOVE IS BLIND 



The blinded Armoor stood with parted lips, 
And gently whispered "You, for you I live. 
Your presence here is not unknown to me. 
I have no sight, yet still, the blind may live 
And feel, and think, and know the loved one 
near.'* 

The arms were raised that sense of touch 

might find, 
And plead in mute though loving earnestness. 
All Armoor trembling, yearned assuring word 
That he might loose the pent and burning 

flood 
And let the heart but speak its dream and 

hope. 

No word had reached his ear. Despair was 

his, 
When dropping to the sands, imprinted there 
He found first one, then followed many proofs. 
On bended knees, with hope anew, he crept 
The sloping sands, by footprints led to her. 



Twenty-Six ALL LOVE IS BLIND 

She sprang away and Armoor, rising called; 
"You are so near and yet a universe 
No more completely separates the stars. 
Unless you come to me or guide me there 
No hope, no life, can ere be mine again." 

In silent, noiseless, flight she moved away, 
No footprints told her path, no word farewell. 
The blinded Armoor stood with listening ear 
Until the life's blood ebbed its hopeless tide. 
Then sank to kiss the footprints in the sand. 



THE LAST FIVE Twenty-Seven 

THE LAST FIVE 



Berner Hope was still a young man. For 
eight years he had been employed in the offices 
of a Street Railway Company as stenographer 
and all-round office man. For three years he 
had been drawing eleven dollars a week. He 
had been kept busy. An industrious, ever- 
watchful employee is always kept busy. 

Berner Hope was honest, more so possibly 
with his employer than with himself; for he 
had expected that his conscientious, good 
work would commend him to a better salary, 
and he had not asked for an increase. 

He finally came to a somewhat sudden deci- 
sion. 

He quietly tapped the door of the superin- 
tendent's office late one afternoon. In re- 
sponse to the superintendent's summons, 
"Come in," Berner opened the door and en- 
tered. 

The superintendent, Mr. Rogers, sat at his 
desk. He was a man of medium height, some- 
what heavily built, and as he swung around 
in his chair his iron grey hair and smoothly 



Twenty-Eight THE LAST FIVE 

shaven face gave a strong impression of the 
modern man of business. 

"What is it, Berner?" 

"Mr. Rogers, I desire to tender my resigna- 
tion." 

"What, going to quit?" inquired the super- 
intendent. 

"I resign my position." 

"Oh, come now, what is this, a strike?" 

"No sir, I have considerable outside busi- 
ness and I feel compelled to resign." 

"Outside business, Berner, I wasn't aware 
that you had been carrying a side line;" said 
Mr. Rogers, smiling. 

"I have not;" replied Berner, looking across 
the street. 

"May I ask what it is that is going to keep 
you so busy?" 

"I — I expect to be pretty busy looking for 
a better position." 

"Oh, that's it, is it? Now, look here, my boy, 
you stay with us; I will see that you receive 
more money. We will make it twelve fifty 
for awhile and then we will make it fifteen a 
week. What do you say to that?" 

"Thank you, Mr. Rogers; but I have de- 
cided to resign." 

"All right, my boy, let me know how you 



THE LAST FIVE Twenty-Nine 

get along. I don't know just where I am go- 
ing to find a man to take your place; but be 
assured I'll be glad to hear that you do well." 

Berner took the proffered hand and his voice 
trembled as he thanked the superintendent and 
said "Good-bye." 

Weeks of busy idleness stretched into 
months and Berner Hope's savings of years 
were steadily taking wings. It was only when 
his money had dwindled to a solitary five dol- 
lar bill that Berner entertained a thought of 
trying his luck with Mr. Rogers. He had left 
his name and address with numerous em- 
ployers. He had only read the want columns 
of the newspapers for weeks. He had tramped 
the city from north to south and east to west. 
He had found one place not quite as good as 
his old position. For a few days he enjoyed 
a bright prospect which did not materialize. 

As he stood in the doorway of a prominent 
place of business he overheard one man say 
to another: 

"But he must be honest. The position is 
one of great responsibility and the man who 
fills it must be honest.'' 

Berner followed at a distance until the two 
men entered a large office building. When 
he came to the elevator his quarry had 



Thirty THE LAST FIVE 

reached one of the ten upper floors. As the 
elevator descended he described his man to 
the attendant and finally learned that he had 
followed Mr. Campbell, the general agent of 
the Old World Insurance Company. 

Berner did not call at once. He figured that 
honest men were so scarce that that job might 
wait for him if he could quickly originate a 
plan of action. He examined his purse and 
found one last five dollar bill and a street car 
ticket. He knew he was honest and he wanted 
to prove the fact to Mr. Campbell. 

Suddenly Burner turned and made his way 
to the offices of the Street Railway Company. 
It was about one-thirty P. M., and as the 
banks did not close until two he decided to 
take a chance on finding Mr. Campbell in his 
office after banking hours, especially as there 
was no ball game that day. He immediately 
called on Mr. Rogers. 

The superintendent greeted Berner warmly 
as he said: "I am glad to see you Berner. 
What can I do for you? Want your old job 
back?" 

"Not yet, Mr. Rogers, but I may." 
"I don't wish you any bad luck, my boy, 
but I hope you will." 



THE LAST FIVE Thirty-One 

Berner smiled, as he said: *'Mr. Rogers, 
may I ask a favor?" 

"Certainly, Berner, what is it?" 

"Will you lend me your check for twenty- 
five dollars until late this afternoon or to- 
morrow morning? I do not want to use the 
money. I probably will not even cash the 
check." 

"To be sure I will ;" and Mr. Rogers turned 
to his desk and wrote the check. 

"Thank you very much, I will return the 
money or the check not later than tomorrow 
morning;" and Berner turned to leave. 

"Keep it as long as you want it, my boy, 
but let me see you more often." 

Berner thanked Mr. Rogers for his kindness 
and as the banks would be closed by the time 
he could call on Mr. Campbell he sought that 
gentleman's office. Mr. Campbell was busy. 
After some slight delay Berner was admitted. 

"Mr. Campbell, Berner Hope is my name. 
I overheard you speaking to a gentleman on 
the street this noon and judging from your 
remark, I believe you are in need of a man. 
I desire a position and would be pleased to 
have your consideration." 

Mr. Campbell eyed Berner critically before 
he spoke. 



Thirty-Two THE LAST FIVE 

"What experience have you had?" 

"In the insurance business, none; in office 
work, eight years;" replied Berner. 

"You may give me your address, Mr. Hope, 
you may hear from me later. I have a position 
that is open, or will be the first of the month. 
It is office v/ork too, but very particular, very 
responsible office work. The man who fills 
the position must be a peer among men in one 
particular at least ; I will see what can be done. 

Berner slowly drew his purse from his 
pocket and removing his last five dollar bill 
at the same time that he brought out Mr. 
Rogers' check, he said : "Mr. Campbell, would 
it be requesting too great a favor to ask you 
to cash this check. It is after banking hours 
and I ." 

"Well, I,— truth is I — I don't know you, 
Mr. Hope. Whose signature does the check 
carry?" 

"Mr. Rogers' of the Street Railway Com- 
pany." 

"Who? Oh, Bob Rogers," taking the check. 
"Why, certainly; just endorse it Mr. Hope." 

Berner endorsed the check and Mr. Camp- 
bell handed him five five dollar bills. Berner 
counted the money and as he did so he easily 
slipped his one, his last bill among the five. 



THE LAST FIVE Thirty-Three 

"Pardon me, Mr. Campbell, I believe I have 
five too much." 

"What's that you say?" quickly asked Mr. 
Campbell; "five too much — let me see. Sure 
enough, six fives. Thank you for the correc- 
tion, Mr. Hope." 

"Thank you for the accommodation, Mr. 
Campbell," replied Berner as he prepared to 
leave the office. 

"Look here, young man ; you have given me 
better evidence than I can find by any investi- 
gation, that you are honest. Honesty is of 
the greatest importance in this particular po- 
sition. I have half a mind — I will, offer you 
the position. It pays twelve hundred a year 
with a raise to fifteen hundred in two years. 
I'm very glad to have that job off my mind. 
You will take it of course." 

Berner was speechless for a minute; but he 
soon recovered. He had not figured this all 
out in advance. He had, however, only car- 
ried his plans to this certain point. He had 
not taken into account his own conscience and 
that stern principle by which he had always 
lived. 

"Mr. Campbell, I cannot do it. Thank you 
very much, but I was carried away with the 
idea of impressing you with honesty. I over- 



Thirty-Four THE LAST FIVE 

heard your remark that whoever filled the po- 
sition must be thoroughly honest. You have 
no idea how I need the position, but I have 
used a trick to draw your attention and while 
I thank you from the depths of my being I 
cannot accept ; but I thank you — I thank you ;" 
and he hastily left the office. 

As the door closed Mr. Campbell whistled 
as he said:. *'Well I'll be — what do you think 
of that?" 

Berner hastily called on Mr. Rogers, but 
finding that gentleman busily engaged he left 
the twenty-five dollars with the superinten- 
dent's secretary, taking his receipt. Berner 
thought afterwards how lucky it was that Mr. 
Rogers was busy. If his old position had been 
offered at that moment there would have been 
no doubt of Berner's acceptance. As it was, 
Berner emptied his purse by using the street 
car ticket in going to his room. That night 
he dreamed of a man who lived happily on an 
extremely small salary; a man who drove his 
automobile on eleven dollars a week; a man 
who could dress well and support a family 
and own a country place on eleven — but why 
recount a dream. The morning's sunlight 
brought to Berner's room a postman and the 
postman brought a letter. The envelope bore 



THE LAST FIVE Thirty-Five 

the card of the Old World Insurance Com- 
pany, and as Berner opened it a five dollar bill 
fell to the floor. Berner removed the letter 
and read: 
Mr. Berner Hope, 

Dear Sir: — I have been thinking over our 
talk of this afternoon and I am determined 
not to lose you. I insist on your acceptance 
of my proposition. You are honest all right, 
I know, for you never would have confessed 
that you used the trick had honesty not been 
your compelling force. Nevertheless, nerve 
and cleverness are as necessary requisites as 
honesty in the insurance business. 

Please let me have your acceptance as early 
as possible. I enclose the five dollar bill. You 
may need it, at any rate it is yours. 

Don't fail to call tomorrow. 
Yours very truly, 

J. D. CAMPBELL. 

Berner finished reading the letter and run- 
ning his hands deep into his penniless pockets, 
said to himself: "I guess I will call on Mr. 
Rogers and makie sure he received his twenty- 
five all right." 



Thirty-Six THE OLD YEAR and THE NEW 



THE OLD YEAR and THE NEW 



The year that passes, count its hours sublime, 
In onward, steady, constant flight of time; 
No minute does it shorten as it flies; 
No second does it quicken ere it dies. 

The silver thread of time bears seconds rare, 
Like crystal beads of dew on morning's air. 
The sunbeam sips the dew as vapors rise; 
The seconds all are ours, a golden prize. 

We gave the year that's past; we give the 

new 
Our efforts best, endeavor constant, true. 
Our thoughts will be the seconds of our minds ; 
Good deeds the hours, and hope, the tie that 

binds. 



UGHTS AND SHADES Thirty-Seven 

LIGHTS AND SHADES 



The day was slipping into evening and the 
storm without only tended to enhance the 
charm of the home scene within. 

It was a pretty scene, this home, made so 
by its inhabitants, a man in the prime of life, 
and his wife, but a year or two his junior. 

The windows were shaded, and the firelight 
heightened the color in Mary's cheeks. She 
was a busy little housewife, and found life's 
pleasures around this, her fireside for the past 
two years. She and John were married two 
years and fourteen days before this particular 
day, and every hour had brought its own re- 
ward to Mary and to John. 

Mary was sitting in a rocking chair near 
the open fireplace. Her needlework and hands 
had fallen idly and lay in her lap as she real- 
ized that the uncertain light was not sufficient 
to work by. Her head rested on the high back 
of the chair; her eyes were closed, and she 
whispered to herself: "It is true, it is true; 
how great a world it is. Only a few short 
years ago and I was a child, finding my pleas- 



Thirty-Eight LIGHTS AND SHADES 

ures and dividing my childish sorrows at dear 
old mother's knee ; and, now ; think now. How 
shall I tell John? What will he say? Will 
he love me more? Ah, I know." 

As Mary glanced at the timepiece over the 
fireplace she started up quickly. "How the 
time flies. It is almost time for him now, and 
I've so much to do." 

She smoothed the pillows on the couch; she 
hummed softly as she glanced from the win- 
dow in anticipation of the coming of John. 
She left the thoughtful, loving touches about 
the room that transform the enclosure called 
"house*' into the palace called "home." 

Just before going to the garden for a bit 
of green, and the flowers she knew John would 
look for, she brought from their hiding place 
a roomy pair of slippers, and placed them be- 
fore a favored rocking chair. 

'Twas then she went to the garden, leaving 
to fill her vacated space a breath of all that's 
sacred, that's pure, that's lovable — an invisible, 
though quivering, assured something, which 
follows in the wake of the spiritual soul. It 
was this something, this presence, this nectar 
of being or having lately been, which greeted 
John as he entered his home. He drank his 
fill of it, though wrought as he was, before he 



LIGHTS AND SHADES Thirty-Nine 

threw himself, without removing his hat or 
coat, full length upon the welcoming couch. 
It was there that the strong man's long-pent- 
up emotions burst the bounds of loving solici- 
tude, and in the sanctity of home his deep sobs 
brought the peace his mind could not conjure. 

With a handful of flowers, Mary came, all 
unconscious of the presence and the sorrow 
of John. She dropped the flowers upon the 
table as she ran to him, and kneeling by his 
side, spoke to him in a low voice, already 
choked with their grief. 

'John — dear John — I am here. Tell me— 
do tell me, John — " 

V/ith an effort he checked his outward dis- 
play, and placing his arm about her, he tried 
to say, "In just a minute, Mary." 

Mary raised her hand and lovingly removed 
the hat that covered his head, and coming still 
closer to him she seemed to whisper to him; 
and if she kissed the troubled head, it was to 
prove his grief was hers. 

Such a heaven has been the haven of many 
a mariner on life's troubled sea, and so it was 
vAth John, for he soon raised himself from 
the couch and thanked Mary with a kiss. 

"Forgive me — dear — it is nothing.' Twas 
foolish — but — " and he looked into her eyes 



Forty UGHTS AND SHADES 

until his own glistened with loving grateful- 
ness. 

Mary, still clinging to him, falteringly asked : 
"What was it, John?*' She straightened the 
couch pillows, and anxiously awaited his reply. 

"I don't know just how to tell you, Mary. 
I have pictured to myself so many times how 
I might some day tell you so different a version 
of the same story — but — maybe — it is just as 
well—" 

"I am sure it is, dear John." 

"You know how irksome it is to write the 
commercial stuflF that has been my lot ever 
since I became a newspaper man? Oh, yes, 
sometimes a good story falls to me and I find 
pleasure in my work — ^and I am only too glad 
to keep right at it, if I could only see some 
silver lining to the cloud — if I could know that 
some day — but I don't, I don't — " 

"Yes, but John — ^it will come, dear, I know 
it will," and she crowned him with her confi- 
dence in his ability. 

"I cannot help but think that you speak 
truly, Mary — ^but, sometimes — today — I, for a 
minute, lost hope. Let me tell you something, 
about which I have planned as a surprise to 
you. 

"During nearly all of my spare time the last 



LIGHTS AND SHADES Forty-One 

two years I have been writing a story — a book. 

"I have put into it all that is in me. The 
general plot, the characters, all are mine. The 
scenes are the pictures of my imagination. 
The people are the players upon my mental 
stage. They speak as I would have them. 
The story is full of action ; it has go and human 
interest. Why, dear, I wrote chapter after 
chapter right here in this room. Of course 
you thought I was working on my notes for 
the next day, and I always had the notes at 
hand, to satisfy you, but I have been living in 
dreamland." 

"And you have been happy, John?" 

"Yes, Mary, happy — happy in dreamland. 
But listen — I have sent my manuscript to pub- 
lishers — first to one and then to another. 
Some returned it so quickly that I am sure 
they did not give even a passing notice. 
Others kept the story so long that I felt sure 
of success only to be more sorely disappointed. 

"You remember the evening I called for you 
at Firestone's, when you thought I was ill?" 

"Yes, John." 

"The manuscript had been in the hands of 
H's for six long weeks, and I almost knew I 
had landed. It was returned that afternoon. 
Some weeks ago I sent it to the last available 



Forty-Two LIGHTS AND SHADES 

publisher, and it was returned to me today, 
with a note, saying that on account of a con- 
gestion of material, their readers could not 
take it up for some time to come. It has been 
the rounds, Mary, and the disappointment was, 
for a minute, too much for me. How I wanted 
to surprise you — and instead, I am making you 
miserable; forgive me, dear, I'll forget it all." 

"No, John, we will not forget, and do you 
think that you would have surprised or pleased 
me more by finding a publisher? You are mis- 
taken, my husband. The true greatness comes 
in the authorship, not in the publicity — *Full 
many a rose is born to blush unseen' — you 
know the rest, and no doubt, John, but that 
the rose was beautiful." 

"Yes, Mary, but—" 

"Ah, John, you are ambitious; we're young, 
your time will come." 

Taking Mary in his arms, John said: "It 
has come, Mary, for you are the fulfillment of 
my ambitions. It is for you that I crave rec- 
ognition of my hopes in life. Don't you know 
that, Mary?" 

"Yes, John. John, dear." 

"Yes, Mary." 

"I have a secret, too." 

"What is it, Mary?" 



LIGHTS AND SHADES Forty-Three 

"Are you sure you want to know?" 

Mary had been kneeling near to John. He 
raised her by her arms to his lap as he said: 
"Don't think, dear, that I am so taken up with 
my own thoughts that I am not always inter- 
ested in yours. Of course I want to know 
your secret." 

Mary looked into his eyes, and finding the 
always steadfast responsiveness, laid her head 
on his shoulder and whispered her secret. 

Quietly and thoughtfully John drew her 
closer, and asked, "Why haven't you told me 
sooner?" 

Without moving her head, Mary whispered, 
"I wasn't sure until today, John." 

It was with almost sacred awe John's arms 
folded his dear one closer as he said, more to 
himself than to her, "And I thought I could 
write a book." 

From the depths of her seclusion, Mary 
asked, "Are you happy, John?" 

"Happy, Mary; I am more than happy — I 
am content. The unfolding of this page in life 
is already heaping its great rewards." 



Forty-Four LOVE 



"LOVE" 

THE GLOSSARY OF LIFE 



Of joys in life beholding, 
None sing so sweet a song, 

As love in its unfolding; 
Make its unfolding long. 

Love lives in greater measure 
With love for love returned. 

Make love your own dear treasure 
When this sure truth is learned. 

Receive and give unceasing; 

'Tis yours to give and keep; 
And with the years increasing 

*Twill grow, grow sure- and deep. 

While love's a song of nature, 

It is the word to heed, 
For love's a nomenclature 

Of life that's life indeed. 



ACTAH Forty-Five 

ACTAH 



Acta', as she was called by the boys, never 
knew, and never cared, where she was born. 
Her earlier recollections included the same 
scenes and nearly the same people with whom 
she had been acquainted all her life. Death 
had deprived her of but one of the playmates 
of her earlier years ; her dear old Dad. 

Actah's father and the boys had, in their 
own way, taken the place of the mother she 
had never known. Her home was on her 
father's ranch, Checotah, in Oklahoma, and her 
companions were the cowboys and ranchmen 
in her father's employ. 

Actah had grown, in nineteen years, from 
a veritable "babe of the plains," to a graceful, 
good to look upon, daring girl of the West, 
dressed in buckskin and mounted on the finest 
type of saddle horse the West afforded. 

Surrounded as she was and knowing only 
ranchmen it is but natural to suppose that she 
acquired the characteristics of such men, but 
the supposition is erroneous. True, she could 
ride a horse without the saddle and rope a 
steer as dexterously as any cowboy, but this 



Forty-Six ACTAH 

out in the air life seemed to have only added 
power to the charm of her personal beauty. 
Many on the ranch who had seen and timed 
her, claimed that she could, for a hundred 
yards, give chase to a frantic steer, rope, throw 
and tie him in thirty and one-fourth seconds; 
a feat rarely accomplished by the most expert 
cowboys. 

Not all her time, however, was given up 
to these games of the fields, for not only the 
ranch-house but the quarters of the boys held 
many evidences of her womanly presence and 
activity. These took the form of little atten- 
tions that only a woman's mind can originate, 
and that only a kindly disposed friend would 
execute. 

The boys were none the less thoughtful and 
Actah's life was never dull nor commonplace. 

Years ago when Actah was a babe, her 
father came to Checotah with Old Dave, and 
to the day of her father's death Old Dave was 
his right-hand man, always ready and willing 
to oversee any enterprise. To Old Dave's 
credit let it be recorded, that he seldom took 
the wrong trail and nearly always succeeded. 
It was he who passed upon the applications of 
the boys who wanted jobs. He was familiar 
with the reputations of those who had repu- 



ACTAH Forty-Seven 

tations and he could size up an unknown and 
give him a reputation at first sight. Old Dave 
seldom erred in his judgment of human nature. 
He acquired the name '*01d Dave," when his 
son, Young Dave, came to be looked upon 
as one of the boys of Checotah ranch. 

Between Old Dave and his son there was 
an exceptional bond of sympathy. There was 
a charm in the youngster's calm demeanor that 
seemed to speak to Old Dave as a voice from 
the one whose absence, which, on account of 
the startling similarity of characteristics in 
the boy, was the less keenly felt. Many hours 
had Old Dave studied the younger mind as it 
developed and disclosed itself in the deliberate 
and determined actions of his son. He was 
proud of the boy's physical development, his 
skill in the saddle, his unfaltering determina- 
tion and his straightforward, frank manner. 

One of Old Dave's most able lieutenants on 
the ranch was Bronco Charley, a daring rider, 
although in the exclusive presence of men, a 
rough and altogether disagreeable fellow. His 
past was just what might have been expected 
by any reader of character, seeing him for the 
first time. He had killed his man and it was 
sometimes whispered that he had killed his 
woman, too. He was, however, a valuable 



Forty-Eight ACTAH 

man on the ranch. In Actah*s presence Bronco 
Charley was every inch a gentleman and the 
boys soon learned when to approach him for 
favors. He would have willingly loaned, even 
his rope, if he had been asked for it in Actah's 
presence. He had long been accredited with 
having saved the life of Old Dave in the ear- 
lier and more turbulent days. Probably on 
account of the fact the friendship that existed 
between Old Dave and Bronco Charley was 
the more lasting. 

At the time of the death of her father, Actah 
became the sole owner of Checotah, and with 
Old Dave as overseer, the ranch was pros- 
pering. 

The following spring, a Colonel Malford 
came to Checotah and his coming was long to 
be remembered. He was organizing his wild- 
est of "Wild West Shows" to be exhibited at 
the Louisiana Purchase Exposition at Saint 
Louis. 

The boys were called in. Old Dave and 
Actah were more than willing to spend, what 
seemed to them a holiday, and the outcome of 
the Colonel's visit was that all the experts, in 
their respective lines of achievement, were en- 
gaged. The one exception to this plan was 
Young Dave. He was to be left in charge of 



ACTAH Forty-Nine 

Checotah. This decision was reached after a 
whispered conference between Bronco Charley 
and Old Dave. 

Young Dave accepted the decision without 
comment but the blue sky, the atmosphere, 
all of Checotah might have been removed, only 
leaving Young Dave on bed rock to attend 
himself and life would have held just as much 
for him as it did when he heard his father's 
decision. The one thought that Actah had 
remained silent and in that way showed her 
willingness to leave "her all" in his care was 
the consolation that prompted his silence. It 
was a trust and he thought he knew its mean- 
ing. 

After three weeks of rehearsal the entire 
production was removed to Saint Louis in 
time for the opening of the great fair. 

To Actah's mind, the change from ranch 
life to the crowded grounds of the fair was 
like the first carroUing of a gazelle. Had it 
not been for the interest she took in the public 
performances her pony's head would have 
been turned toward Checotah and she would 
have ridden to her accustomed freedom. 

The show life became a continuous round of 
rehearsal and public performance. New fea- 
tures were added daily. The fight between the 



Fifty ACTAH 

white settler, aided by his cowboy friends and 
the red men was catching on and was being 
elaborated upon. Actah was called upon to 
take the part of the settler's wife, while 
Bronco Charley played the part of the settler. 
This was in addition to her regular duties of 
appearing in the opening review and in her 
specialty of daring riding in the roping of 
cattle which always met with a whirlwind of 
applause from the audience and performers 
alike. 

Many a head would have been turned with 
less show of approval, but to Actah's level 
mind the applause was but a natural conse- 
quence, rather than personally inspired ador- 
ation. 

When her act was finished she rode direct- 
ly toward the center of the grand stand with 
all the dash of true horsemanship and when 
perilously near the spectators she would quick- 
ly check her mount, and dolfing her broad 
brimmed 'Sombrero, pull her horse to the left 
and gracefully ride away leaving thousands 
of quickly won and admiring friends while 
they were shouting and proclaiming her 
praises. 

After the show had settled to daily routine 
Actah found time, which, had it not been pos- 



ACTAH Fifty-One 

sible to occupy with new and interesting ex- 
periences, would have hung heavy. In the 
forenoons she visited the exhibit buildings 
and found the world crowded with possessions 
about which she had known nothing. She 
took a launch ride on the lagoons, one even- 
ing, as the lights were transforming the cas- 
cades into dreamland. The elegantly dressed 
woman sitting next to Actah gathered her 
skirts about her so that they might not touch 
the fringed leather of Actah's dress but Actah 
did not notice the movement. She only saw 
the lights upon the water, the beauties of the 
cascades, the varied greens of grass, shrub 
and plant as the artificial lights blended with 
the moon's early rays, ever changing the en- 
chantment of the bewildering scene. From 
somewhere under one of the many arched 
bridges could be heard the melodious barytone 
of a gondolier, as he sang a Venetian love 
song. 

Actah turned quickly and the name "Dick," 
died upon her lips as she awakened from her 
dream and realized her surroundings. She 
had made two round trips in the launch and 
knew she would be late for the early evening 
performance. 

She left the launch at the Royal Landing 



Fifty-Two ACTAH 

and hurriedly crossed the plaza. She barely 
had time to mount for the review. As it was, 
she was compelled to ride a strange pony, as 
her groom, commonly called, "The Kid," failed 
to have her own pony ready. 

She rode the wicked little rat of a mustang 
into the arena and as she turned into the line 
of march he gave a most strenuous exhibition 
of an ugly disposition. Actah was in no dan- 
ger of losing her seat, however. It was not 
her custom of allowing any horse to disturb 
her, but Bronco Charley sprang to her side 
and grasped her bridle. 

"Let go, Charley, I got her." 

"Let me help you, Acta ; that animal's killed 
her man;'' and Charley still held the bridle. 

"Let go, I say. I don't care how many she's 
killed. I'm not on her list;" and as the pony 
gave a wicked lunge Charley loosed his hold, 
and Actah fairly danced her charge around 
the arena. 

Charley's insistent attendance upon Actah 
was known and remarked upon. Those who 
knew Charley best shook their heads and said, 
"poor girl." The general opinion of the others 
was that she might do worse. 

To all outward appearances Charley's love 
making had not become annoyingly serious. 



ACTAH Fifty-Three 

He was, nevertheless, most determined and 
had, long since, decided to become the lord of 
Checotah. 

His riding had become hazardous, well near 
perilous, so set was he upon claiming Actah*s 
attention through sheer admiration of his skill 
in the saddle. As he had never come nearer 
than by word of mouth Actah experienced no 
uneasiness whatever. She had never consid- 
ered what course she would adopt should 
Charley become over industrious in his atten- 
tions. 

There was an immense throng of spectators 
the night that Actah was late. After the re- 
view, which she danced out to the pony's utter 
exhaustion and her own satisfaction, she 
mounted her own thoroughbred and dis- 
counted her previous record. 

The spectators fairly went wild. With ut- 
ter abandon, she rode as if her mind actuated 
and absolutely controlled horse and rider, as 
indeed it did. Charley looked on completely 
dazed with admiration, and if he made mis- 
takes that night there were extenuating cir- 
cumstances. 

Following Actah's specialty the arena was 
cleared and Actah entered the settler's cabin 
where she was supposed to be preparing the 



Fifty-Four ACTAH 

evening meal while she awaited her settler 
husband's return from the trail. He entered 
the arena from the opposite side, his pony 
traveling slowly but steadily under the heavy 
load. Charley had been successful that day 
and carried a buffalo calf hung over his pony's 
neck just before the saddle. He fired his rifle, 
saluting his home as he came in sight. Actah 
opened the door and waved her hand in greet- 
ing. Charley rode to the hut and Actah 
helped him as he swung the calf onto conven- 
ient hooks. As Actah entered the cabin 
Charley hobbled his pony and followed her. 
Immediately the red men put in an appear- 
ance, and while one attempted to run away 
with the pony others set fire to the hut. 
Charley and Actah opened fire on the reds 
from loop holes, but had it not been for the 
timely arrival of a party of friendly cowboys 
they would have been lost. The cowboys sent 
many of the Indians to an imaginary heaven 
and the others scampering back to their tepees 
on the opposite side of a high board fence. 

During the melee Charley staggered from 
the cabin and fell just outside the door. While 
very realistic this act was not part of the pro- 
gram, and there was some little commotion 
as Charley was carried from the field of action. 



ACTAH Fifty-Five 

As was customary another cowboy fell, early 
in the fight, near and just in front of the re- 
served portion of the grand stand. To him 
his rough, though sympathizing comrades 
came, while yet the smoke of battle hung 
heavy over the lower end of the arena. 

Their remarks over the body of their dead 
comrade were unsophisticated but real and 
true to nature; their actions were natural, 
graceful and in accord with real grief. There 
are greater actors in the world than any who 
have yet trod the histrionic boards and to 
these uncouth exponents of an art they them- 
selves had never realized, many an eye dim- 
med and many a heart throbbed admiration. 
They tenderly raised their dead and placed 
him over an empty saddle, his head and feet 
hanging limply on either side. More than one 
spectator had misgivings so assuredly dead 
did he appear. 

The funeral train moved slowly, solemnly 
out upon the trail to some lonely spot where 
— but it is with the living with which we have 
to deal. 

Behind the scenes incidents of real life were 
being enacted. An impromptu court martial 
was being held by Old Dave. Actah had been 
accused of shooting to kill. 



Fifty-Six ACTAH 

The question of her guilt or innocence was 
to be decided there in the moonlight. If inno- 
cent, absolute protection was to be hers; if 
guilty she would have to take her chances 
with the law. Bronco Charley had been shot, 
possibly killed — circumstances pointed direct- 
ly to Actah. The act had been committed in 
the cabin. Actah's own revolver had been 
found there within a few minutes of the 
tragedy. 

Actah would make no statement. She 
stood silent and self-contained as Old Dave 
begged her to defend herself. He assured her 
that the facts could be kept secret but a little 
while and that if she would speak he would 
do all he could. There was little doubt but 
that the police would be on hand at an early 
moment, and thinking to spur her on to her 
own defense Old Dave denounced Actah in 
no uncertain way. He was telling her that a 
hundred eyes had seen her take deliberate aim 
and shoot Bronco Charley. 

"Hold on father," called Young Dave, as he 
came into the little group leading two ponies. 
*'Actah did not even see the shooting, although 
she had every cause to kill that whelp — I was 
there under the roof of that hut — I couldn't 
stay away any longer — I crawled in there, 



ACTAH Fifty-Seven 

knowing I could see Actah without being seen. 
I was going back tonight, alone, but I have 
changed my plans — I go, but not alone." 

As Dave finished speaking he offered his 
hand to Actah who mounted one of the ponies 
Dave was leading; her own. Dave vaulted 
into his saddle and together they rode west- 
ward away from the blinding lights of Saint 
Louis out into the soft glow of nature's night 
light. Actah and Dave. 

They left Old Dave wondering, stupefied. 
Young Dave's actions had been so absolute, 
so decisive, that not a hand was raised to stay 
him. 

It was Old Dave who devoted himself to 
the care of Bronco Charlev, to his eventual 
recovery. The shooting was considered the 
result of carelessness incident to the average 
wild west show. 

Out along a path two riders were wending 
their way free as the air that brought to them 
contentment, peace, happiness. They were 
man and wife bound for a far western home, 
one they had before both known and loved. 
In the years that followed Checotah became 
widely known for the fame of its stalwart, 
brave, strong master and its charming mis- 
tress. Love ruled that empire; faith made it 
strong; contentment brought it happiness. 



Fifty-Eight NOWHERE 



NOWHERE 

It is to fate's island — Nowhere, 

Over in sorrow's sea, 
Many a soul is self-banished. 

Never a soul is free. 

Why not throw care to the fourwinds? 

Why not be happy now, 
Forgetting island of Nowhere, 

To fate a passing bow? 

It is to hearts that are happy. 

Happiness will return. 
Islands of peace and contentment 

Shelter us when we learn. 



THE VESTU TRAIL Fifty-Nine 

THE VESTU TRAIL 



To the old rock point, the head of the Vestu 
range, these two had come. They were strange 
companions; a little girl and a rugged speci- 
men of manhood; both readily recognizable as 
gypsies by their picturesque dress and 
browned skins. The little one lay fast asleep, 
warmed by a cloak and a nearby camp fire. 
The man approached and gazed upon the 
sleeping child, and as she stirred he stooped 
and wrapped the cloak closer to the little form. 

They had rested here a few hours — here 
where the forest nestled back over the trail, 
here where civilization had crept and wrested 
from nature a share of her beauty. From this 
rocky promontory back to the southeast, over 
the mountains to the lowlands below, lay a 
waste of virgin forest, uninhabited and un- 
trodden save by those nimble, restless crea- 
tures who found a home beneath any sky, the 
gypsies who sometimes took this wild trail in 
quest of game or for change of market. Out 
from the rock to the northwest a new world 
welcomed the wanderer. 

The traveler from the south easily followed 



Sixty VESTU TRAIL 

the trail to the old rock ; but many have turned 
back to search for the main trail, supposing 
they had accidentally taken a by-path to the 
old view point. It is doubtful if anyone, un- 
less well directed, has ever found an outlet to 
the trail over the mountain. There was one, 
however, and but for the one, twenty miles 
would have to be covered before reaching the 
sunny valley and the civilization to the north. 

Within twenty feet of the camp fire that 
burned for our wayfarers the mouth of a 
rocky cavern was hidden by the trees and 
underbrush. Once within the cavern, and armed 
with a fearlessness born of firm determina- 
tion to solve the mysteries of earth's darkest 
and most lonesome trail, a remarkably crooked 
descent of two hundred feet in a cavernous 
journey of half a mile brought the wanderer 
again to a glimpse of the beauty of daylight, 
disclosing a startling view of the valley be- 
yond, framed in gigantic masses of solid rock. 
From the lower exit of the cavern the trail 
was easily followed down the mountain side 
and on to the little railroad station that some- 
times marked the change in lives; the change 
from the unfettered freedom of the long trail 
to the strange freedom of civic liberty. 

From the top of the rock the view to the 



THE VESTU TRAIL Sixty-One 

north repaid the lost traveler unless he was 
in such haste that he found no beauty in views 
of scenic grandeur. Far to the left could be 
traced the glistening surface of the mountain 
torrent as its waters dashed over precipitous 
rocks and lost themselves in the quieter shade 
of the foothills. To the right the snow capped 
heights of Vestu were brilliant in reflection of 
the springtime sun. Looking away from the 
mountains the gentle slopes of undulating low- 
lands bordered the once turbulent mountain 
stream, now the river of clear waters, and 
stretched to a far distant horizon, a realistic 
dream to the tiller of the soil, an ideal haven 
to the wearied traveler. 

From the edge of the rock it was possible 
to look down the precipice' hundreds of feet 
upon as rough and rugged a declivity as was 
ever formed by volcanic upheaval. 

After some slight attention to the fire, Jean 
cleared the brush from the mouth of the cav- 
ern, and as he did so the little one awoke, and 
sang as she pillowed her head on her arm and 
watched her strange companion. As the first 
note reached Jean he arose and slowly re- 
turned as his little friend finished that ex- 
quisite "Ave Maria," the Intermezzo from 
Cavalleria Rusticana. 



Sixty-Two THE VESTU TRAIL 

"Bernice, where — where did you learn that 
song?" 

Bernice rose as she replied: '*My mother 
sang it to me often. Do you know, papa Jean, 
in all this time, I mean, since I was taken 
by those terrible men; — why do you look 
away? You are not one of them, papa Jean; 
you are taking me back to my mamma ; I have 
only to sing that song when I first awake, or 
when I feel sleepy, and I can almost see and 
hear her as she used to sing me to sleep.*' 

"And when I heard you sing I thought I 
heard your mother, but I could not see her. 
Bernice, it is almost time for us to part. In 
a little while you will take the train over there 
at the station, and will soon be at home, and 
I will have kept my promise to your dear 
mother. We have but a short time here, and 
I must tell you all the story so that you can 
tell your mother, that she may know why I 
have been so long in keeping my promise. 
Where is you father, Bernice?" 

"Why, you are my papa Jean." 

"I mean your own papa, little one." 

"He died when I was so young I do not 
remember him. I only remember you, papa 
Jean." 

"Yes, I know, and you will always remem- 



THE VESTU TRAIL Sixty-Three 

ber me, Bernice, when I am far away there 
in the woods, and you are with your mamma 
in Cloverdale." 

"You are not going back to those people! 
You are going with me to Cloverdale, and to 
mamma, and be my papa Jean always." 

"If I could; but listen, Bernice. I hardly 
remember when I first became a gypsy; but 
that I was not always one, I am certain. Three 
years ago, some of the more daring men of 
our tribe determined to steal by Cloverdale 
and carry you away and hold you until a large 
sum of money should be offered for your re- 
turn. I had always succeeded in absenting 
myself from such expeditions, but in this one 
I was commanded and forced, much against 
my will, to participate. Your capture was 
easily accomplished, but the ruffian, Gonza, 
who picked you up handled you so roughly 
that I protested and was struck to earth, and 
left for dead. I am almost frenzied when I 
think how those with whom I had lived nearly, 
if not quite, all my years, were eager to take 
my life. From the moment of that frightful, 
death-dealing blow, for many weeks it seems, 
I laid in a stupor, and would have lost my 
life had it not been for the care and attention 
of your kind mother. As soon as she learned 



Sixty-Four THE VESTU TRAIL 

of my injury I was carried, at her command, 
into her home, and there through the skill of 
surgeons and your untiring mother's care, I 
again found life, but with mixed feelings of 
contentment, fear and sorrow. Sorrow, on 
account of the fact that I had aided in separat- 
ing your good mother and her dearest one, 
her child. Fear, as life held for me a constant 
presentiment of loss of mind, as I suffered 
frequent lapses of consciousness which seemed 
to me moments of insanity; but contentment 
when I lay semi-conscious and heard your 
mother sing as she changed the bandages, or 
performed the many thoughtful attentions that 
contributed to my comfort. Many hours, in 
those long days of convalescence, I watched 
her as she passed to and fro, and when she 
sang that song, the one you sang just now, 
I seemed to dream of a happy home of long 
ago, some place where nature bestowed her 
quietest shade, where loved ones breathed 
words of comfort, and a mother watched over 
her little ones. In time I came to a full reali- 
zation of the debt I owed your mother, and 
as I grew stronger I felt that I should not 
longer remain under her hospitable roof, but, 
if possible, rejoin my tribe, and at least, and 
at any risk, return you to your mother's lov- 
ing care." 



THE VESTU TRAIL Sixty-Fi 



ive 



Bernice rested her hand trustingly on Jean's 
shoulder while he sat on a log, as she said: 
"And just think, day after tomorrow I— we 
will be home !" 

"Home, Bernice? Yes, you will be home, 
home at Cloverdale, and I will be home some- 
where in the forest where a mind may wander 
and be a menace to no one/' 

As Jean ceased speaking his hands sought 
his head as if to counteract the effect of some 
terrible picture conjured in memory. Bernice 
shook her head, taking one of his hands in 
hers. 

*'One day, Bernice, I remember, it was in 
the late afternoon. I could see the sun's re- 
flection in the little lake of Cloverdale, ever 
changing in its brilliant hues, and as constant 
as the sun's own marking of the change from 
day to night, I requested your mother to add 
one more cause of gratitude on my part, and 
tell me in what way I might most surely and 
absolutely repay her the debt I owed. She 
looked at me long and intently as she said: 
*Go to your people, bring back my child;' and 
then, she told me how she had seen and heard 
my protests to the manner in which you were 
handled, Bernice. She had seen the striking 
of the blow that would have killed me had it 



Sixty-Six THE VESTU TRAIL 

not been for her prompt action in having me 
cared for, and while every effort had been un- 
successfully made to secure your return, she 
had never given up hope, but depended upon 
my return to health, as she said to me : *Every 
hope, my good friend Jean, is centered in you. 
If you owe me anything the return of my lit- 
tle Bernice will cancel all obligations. The 
moment I saw you fall, I thought, there is a 
man's life to save, and for his life he will 
willingly return that dearest life in all this 
world to me, the life of Bernice, my little girl.' 
And then she said : *What ties have you with 
a people who have held your life so lightly, 
that cannot and should not be broken, that 
could hold you from conferring this great fa- 
vor?' *None,' I cried, T can find them. I 
knew every trail and footpath from the most 
southern camp near the great water to the 
northern lookout of Vestu; but it will take 
time. I will go tonight. Look for a message 
from me every quarter of the year until your 
little one returns.' As her grateful eyes glis- 
tened in their speaking radiance of renewed 
hope, she cautioned me in most solicitous 
manner to care for myself, and above all not 
to allow excitement in any manner to control 
my actions. It was then I knew she realized 



THE VESTU TRAIL Sixty-Seven 

the danger of my injury. While I had never 
spoken of it, there was one incident in my 
convalescence that worried me, one which I 
tried to keep secret, but from her caution and 
her manner, I knew she knew and feared." 

"One morning she had recounted to me the 
story of your abduction, and my long uncon- 
sciousness, and being hardly strong enough 
to throw the burden of the truth from my 
mind, the story and the hallucinations of a 
fevered imagination caused me to jump from 
my couch. I knew no more of what then hap- 
pened until the sweetest voice that I had ever 
heard sang a strangely fascinating bit of mel- 
ody that at first sounded so far away, so 
dreamily soothing, and so gradually bringing 
back the senses that all were quickening with 
the musical rythm. It was the Intermezzo. 
When I became fully conscious your mother 
was watching me intently while she sang. 
Several of the servants were leaving the 
library, having been attracted, doubtless, by 
the music. When I was left alone I noticed 
that the heavy draperies of one of the win- 
dows of the library, in which I was reclining, 
had been closely drawn. I arose, and step- 
ping to the window, parted the draperies, and 
found the glass shattered. This seemed 



Sixty-Eight THE VESTU TRAIL 

strange, as I had, not an hour before, watched 
through that same window, a robin carrying 
straws to its nest in the apple tree. 

"According to my promise I left Cloverdale 
at once, carrying with me the earnest God- 
speed of your mother, and leaving with her, 
in deepest gratitude, my most sacred promise 
that only death could forestall the redemption 
of that promise. 

"Seven months had passed, and I had sent 
two short messages to Cloverdale before I 
found, one night, the camp where I feared 
and hoped I would find you. My people were 
sullenly surprised. But few words passed 
between us. No one seemed to care for my 
long absence, or my return. Even Gonza took 
a pipe of tobacco from my pouch. I did not 
ask for you, but my eyes rested on every face, 
my ears caught every sound. I went to sleep 
that night not knowing what my next message 
to Cloverdale would contain. 

"On the following morning I saw a little 
girl carrying water, and you remember that I 
spoke to you, and lifting your burden and 
you, I carried you to the camp. On the way 
I asked you if you knew a place called Clover- 
dale.^' 

"And I answered, *Yes,' papa Jean, and then 
I cried." 



THE VESTU TRAIL Sixty-Nine 

"And I cautioned you not to tell the others, 
and told you I would find some way to take 
you back to your mamma. You remember 
how we tried to leave the camp that cold win- 
ter's night, how it all ended in failure, and I 
lost the confidence of the tribe, and you were 
guarded more closely than ever. In all the 
time since then, I have sent messages to your 
mother at regular intervals reassuring her of 
your health, and that no opportunity for es- 
cape would be lost. V^hen the opportunity 
came a month ago we slipped away, and while 
it has been a long journey we are safe and 
happy, little one. They cannot find us now. 
Bernice, do you see that rock? Come, look 
down. From this point to the rocks below is 
several hundred feet. It would be far better 
to jump from this rock to certain death, than 
to be recaptured by the tribe. For you that 
would mean death, or a life worse than death, 
and for me it would mean death. 

''Bernice, tell your mother, tell her I have 
kept my promise, tell her that in every song 
in nature, the wind in the tree tops of the 
forest, the ripple of the waters running over 
the rocks, the many vibrant notes of the birds, 
but bring back the memories of Cloverdale. 

"Tell her that the life of the treacherous 



Seventy THE VESTU TRAIL 

gypsy is not the life for Jean. Oh ! If memory 
could bring some little clue to that earlier life. 
If some one, or something, could bring me to 
the tender caress of a loving mother, a home, 
a life of peace. Gonza, Gonza, I can almost 
see him now. I can see his teeth and feel the 
ugly blow. Gonza! I can hear his words as 
he glared over me: *He*s dead. Dead men 
don't talk.* What could I say? It was for 
her sake I did not take him by the throat and 
strangle the truth from him. For her — for 
her—for ." 

As Jean rose his face betrayed a horrible 
truth. Just on the eve of the successful frui- 
tion of a long deferred hope, madness replaced 
the gentleness of one of nature's noblemen, as 
with one terrible laugh he called "Gonza, 
Gonza," turning from one cliff to another, 
"You have come to take her back. She shall 
not go. Gonza, demon, she shall not go !" 

Bernice called "Papa Jean,*' and tried to 
catch his hand ; as she did so Jean, in his mad- 
ness, tore the sleeve from his coat, and pick- 
ing Bernice from the ground ran to the edge 
of the rock, and swinging her above his head, 
was about to throw her over the cliff, as he 
cried; "Back, back!" 



THE VESTU TRAIL Seventy-One 

Just at the moment, Bernice in mid-air, hov- 
ering between life and death, sang: 
"Ave Marie, hear my cry! 
Oh guide my path, where no harm, 
No harm is nigh." 

It was the same old song. Hardly did the 
first note reach the ear of the frantic Jean than 
his arms trembled, and he slowly returned the 
singing Bernice to earth as gently as a mother 
lays to rest her sleeping babe. 

He kneeling, was clinging to her as she sang 
the last note, when she quickly sprang away 
from him. 

"Go, go, Bernice, enter the cavern. Fear 
not. I will not follow. Keep close to the left 
wall, be careful, do not fall, and in a few min- 
utes you will see the sunlight again. Follow 
the trail to the station; the train will be there 
in an hour. Tell your mother I have kept my 
promise. Goodbye." 

Bernice turned to the cavern, and then came 
quickly back to Jean, as she said: 

"Papa Jean, come. I need you and you need 
me. Come." 

Kissing her hand he rose and led her into 
the cavern, and a new life replaced the old. 



Seventy-Two THE MOONGLADE 

THE MOONGLADE 



The moon comes from its hiding, 

Behind the distant cloud. 
The sea is yet abiding 

Enwrapped in nightly shroud; 

Except the silver beaming; 

Within the sabled walls, 
That trembles, glistens, teeming 

Whene'er the moonbeam falls. 

The course is straight though surging, 
All hemmed on either side. 

The night's dense blackness verging. 
As 'twould its darkness hide. 

Let thought run out the mazes. 
Try not its flight to stave. 

Grasp all the changing phases 
And touch each cresting wave. 

Is it the path of glory 

That leads but to the grave? 
Be it a truer story. 

Some wanderer to save. 



THE MOONGLADE Seventy-Three j 

i 

The poet finds the gladness \ 

In moonglade*s changing light; i 

He also feels the madness \ 

Diffused by orb of night. ] 

The voice of One is speaking, | 

In tones of sweetness rare; I 

For His own children seeking ■ 

May find all lessons there. j 

He who rejects the knowing i 

Of God, and will not try, ! 

Reaps not the love that's flowing, ] 

Nor truths that give the lie. j 

The optimist is dreaming; 

The art sublime he feels; \ 

All love on him is beaming; | 

To One divine he kneels. | 

The cynic stands and gazes 
As in a moment's doubt. 

No scene his mind amazes; 

I 
All beauty's put to rout. ] 



Seventy-Four THE MOONGLADE 

The misers come all trembling 

To see, if nothing more, 
The myriad lights resembling 

The metals they adore. 

The youth comes singing, sadly, 
A song of love's sweet lore. 

To find the glade gives gladly 
His own dear *Eleanor. 

The moon will send its greeting, 

Though distant we may be, 
Along the waters fleeting. 
The same to you and me. 
*Eleanor; signifying light. — Webster. 



A CHRISTMAS MASQUE Seventy-Five 

A CHRISTMAS MASQUE 



"Draw your arms far into your coat sleeves, 
John, and the cuffs will be hardly noticeable," 
said the officer as he escorted John Moore 
from the county jail to the penitentiary, a 
convicted criminal. It was a kindly word on 
the part of the officer, as his prisoner was apt 
to be seen and recognized by many acquaint- 
ances. 

John Moore had dreaded this ordeal of his 
conviction almost as much as the parting of 
a few minutes before, when he was allowed to 
say "good bye" to his wife and their two boys. 
Like all such scenes, the heart-strings were 
tense to the point of snapping — but why at- 
tempt description? Enough it was, when the 
loyal, trusting wife removed her wedding ring 
from her hand and said: "Wear it, John, for 
the next two years; then, — why, — then, John 
you will bring it back to me." 

John Moore's trial had been a short and 
decisive victory for the prosecution. He pro- 
tested his innocence, but could not disprove 
the evidence. The court was lenient in view of 
the excellent reputation of the accused, and 



Seventy-Six A CHRISTMAS MASQUE 

the minimum sentence of two years in the 
state's prison put an end to the trial. 

It was one of those offenses against justice 
of which many men are guilty and go unpun- 
ished, and where, it seems, one man suffers 
enough for all. 

There were few who saw and recognized 
the guarded man, and they felt only sym- 
pathy. 

John Moore did not believe in the use of 
circumstantial evidence in the conviction for 
crime. He not only knew his own innocence, 
but he had circumstantial reasons for believing 
that he could name the man who was guilty, 
though he knew his reasons were not evi- 
dence. There was only one other man who 
could, through any possible chance, be guilty; 
but that man, Jesse Walters, was so far above 
him, as reckoned by the social steps of life, 
that only evidence of most tangible form could 
convict. 

How many, many nights he lay in the dreary 
prison cell running over in his mind the cir- 
cumstances and his connection with the crime, 
until, one day, one of his wife's letters told of 
a communication she had, the day before, re- 
ceived. It read: 



A CHRISTMAS MASQUE Seventy-Seven 

"Mrs. John Moore. 

"Dear Madam : — Knowing something of 
your misfortune and desiring to make, if 
possible, your burden Hghter, I have de- 
posited to your order, two thousand dol- 
lars in the First National Bank. Sin- 
cerely trusting that John Moore's wife 
and sons may be materially benefited by 
this action, I beg to rem.ain to you 

"Unknown." 

"Unknown," yes, to his wife and sons; but 
to John Moore those letters "u-n-k-n-o-w-n," 
spelled "Jesse Walters," and without loss of 
time he wrote to his wife, begging her not to 
touch a penny of the money unless she, or the 
boys, became in actual need. He pointed out 
to her the fact that either the donor was the 
kindest-disposed friend in the world, who need 
not withhold his own name, or that he was the 
guilty one for whom she, and those she loved, 
were suffering; in which case, there was every 
reason for withholding his name. 

During those two years a Christmas came 
and passed, and the greatest joy it brought to 
John Moore's loved ones was the realization 
that time was passing and there remained but 
little more than a year before the return of 
the husband and father. 



Seventy-Eight A CHRISTMAS MASQUE 

As the second year dragged to an end, John 
Moore decided that he could never return to 
his home city. He could not meet the friends 
of the past and be made to feel that at least 
some of them were doubtful of his innocence. 
He had decided that he would not communi- 
cate his plans to his wife. He felt sure that, 
after he had succeeded, she would see the wis- 
dom of his action. 

He had been told that his good conduct dur- 
ing his imprisonment had earned two months' 
time, — the best two months of his life, — and 
he would be released the middle of December. 
He found it hard waiting until he could write 
the good news; but when that was possible, 
he felt it would be better to wait until he was 
free and on his way to the west before he ac- 
quainted his wife with the knowledge of his 
shortened term. The silent call of her loyal 
patience, the thought of the boys, was hard 
enough to overcome. He knew that one let- 
ter from her, after learning of his early re- 
lease, would deter his action and bring him 
back, and God knew, it was for them he was 
going away. 

At last the great day came. He was free, — 
free to go home. "Home," what a word! 
How it called to him ; but it was home where 



A CHRISTMAS MASQUE Seventy-Nine 

he was going. To a home — unknown — but 
home, out there in the beckoning west. It 
would not be long until he could have them 
with him, and then — 

He would mail the letter he had written to 
his wife and boys and take the next train to 
the west. Just as he was about to drop the 
letter, a thought stopped the action. Putting 
the letter into his pocket instead of into the 
mail box, he hurriedly made his way to the 
station and purchased a ticket for — "home." 

He could not go to the west without first 
seeing those loved ones, even if they did not 
see him. 

It was nearing evening when he reached the 
city, and as he crossed a street he came face 
to face with a man, one of the Volunteers of 
America, dressed in the guise of Santa Claus, 
who, standing there upon the street, greeted 
the little folks as they passed, and accepted the 
contributions that were to make some of 
earth's less fortunate ones happy on the com- 
ing Christmas Day. Here was a way. In 
such a dress John Moore could see and rec- 
ognize and not be recognized in turn. 

He spoke quietly with the Santa Claus, who 
gave him directions. It was a short walk to 
the Armory. Once there, his proffered services 



Eighty A CHRISTMAS MASQUE 

were accepted and John Moore hastily clothed 
himself in wig, mask and coat of the prince 
of Christmastide. John Moore mentally noted 
the contrast of his late apparel with his pres- 
ent garb of good cheer and happiness. 

There was no time to be lost. He was safe, 
and he hurried to the street corner nearest 
his home. 

John Moore had returned, — almost, but not 
quite. He stood on the corner near the cot- 
tage which held all that was dear to him. 
Strangers came, dropped small coins into his 
pot, spoke a kindly word, and passed. Chil- 
dren stopped and gazed on him in wonder and 
expectancy. Santa Claus extended his hand, 
and as a little one took it, he asked, as he had 
heard the other Santa ask : . ''And what would 
you like to have Santa Claus bring to you?'* 

"A doll, roller skates, typewriter, wash tub 
and wash board and a new dress for mamma," 
rattled the child, v/hen she ran away to tell 
her mother that she had seen Santa Claus and 
shook hands with him. The eyes of J. M. 
Santa Claus followed the little miss and he 
was only brought back to his duty to the army 
when a man spoke kindly to him and dropped 
a bill into the pot. He was Jesse Walters. 

As Walters passed up the street he glanced 



A CHRISTMAS MASQUE Eighty-One 

at the heme of John Moore and his hands gave 
a spasmodic clinch. John Moore saw, but 
his thoughts were quickly changed as a little 
fellow came out of the Moore home and, see- 
ing the waiting Santa Claus, rushed back to 
the door, calling: "O mamma, come and see 
the Santa Claus. He's right out here. Come 
on. 

John Moore heard his elder son's voice. 
How he wanted to go to him, — to them. For 
their sakes, — for them, — he must carry out his 
masquerade. They must not know. 

Mrs. Moore and her sons came out to see 
the Santa Claus. After she had placed a small 
coin in the pot, John Moore steeled himself and, 
stooping, touched the hand of his son, and in 
a voice choked with emotion, asked: "And 
what would you like to have Santa Claus bring 
to you?" 

''The manly little fellow looked intently, as 
if trying to see beyond the mask, as he said, 
simply, "My papa." 

John Moore's hand moved quickly. As it 
did so the wife saw and recognized the ring 
upon his finger — her wedding ring. Trem- 
bling, she asked: "Is it you, John?" 

Could mortal mind stand more? The mask 
was thrown off. There, in the street, John 



Eighty-Two A CHRISTMAS MASQUE 

Moore gathered his own. As they stood, all 
tears and smiles, Jesse Walters returned that 
way. 

"John Moore! Home again! Well, this is 
good. By the way, John, I have spoken to 
the other members of the firm, and they have 
agreed with me that you shall not only have 
your old position, but a better one. Of course 
you will come back." 

With one hand clasped in those of his wife, 
and his other arm about his two boys, John 
Moore said: "Then it was — you. Mr. V/al- 
ters, if I were guilty, you would never make 
this offer. Jesse Walters, of all men, you 
know my innocence. There is only one thing 
you can do for these loved ones, and me. I 
do not want your positon. Your money has 
not been touched. I want these boys cleared." 

"You are right, John Moore. Pride and 
opportunity made the wrong possible. I 
thought I had done all I could to right you, 
John, but I haven't. I will, though, — I will." 

"It was a fervent "God bless you," that es- 
caped Mrs. Moore's lips, and John Moore took 
the proffered hand of Jesse Walters. 

The little fellow looked up sweetly, as he 
said: "Santa Claus did bring my papa." 



MARBLES Eighiy-Three 

MARBLES 

I can recall the games I played, 

When, in the happy days gone by, 
I loitered, and so late I stayed, 

That mother met me with a sigh. 
Of games I played from morn till night, 

At marbles I could beat the lot. 
They heard me yell, "You knuck down tight. 

Fen hunchin's, now-ow, it*s my shot." 

I went to school? Well, I guess yes. 

And got my lessons, too, you bet; 
For play made not my studies less. 

So, work I would till school was let; 
And then, so long as it was light 

To get my "dakes" upon the spot, 
I used to yell, "You knuck down tight. 

Fen hunchin's, now-ow, it's my shot." 

'Twas baseball now, 'twas football then; 

'Twas shinny, played by dull and smart. 
'Twas every game for two to ten; 

But marbles won my boyish heart. 
And when I played, I thought it right, 

The other fellow should, why not. 
Just play like me and knuck down tight. 

Fen hunchin's, now-ow, it's my shot. 



Eighty-Four MARBLES 

In kiting time 'twas fun 'twould bring; 

'Twas like a politician's pull 

To have something upon a string. 

And realize my heart grow full. 
For forty "spots" I'd trade my kite, 

And then for gam.e I was red hot, 
For I could play at, "Knuck down tight, 

Fen hunchin's, now-ow, it's my shot." 



A PICTURE SWEETHEART Eighty-Five 



A PICTURE SWEETHEART 



Florence Drew sat in the library and study 
of Father Piere waiting for an opportunity of 
speaking with him face to face. Two minutes 
in that solitude almost changed her mind, and 
if she could have left without being seen, she 
would have done so. 

Father Piere entered as if he were aware of 
her presence. He bowed and placed on his 
desk the papers he was carrying. He slowly 
turned and spoke kindly: 

"You wish to see me?" 

Florence rose from the chair as she replied: 
"I wish to speak with you.*' 

The Father looked up quickly as she spoke. 
"For the first time?" 

"No, Father." 

"Ah, I recognize your voice." 

"I am glad. It will make what I have to say 
so much easier." 

Thoughtfully the Father replied: "Yes. 
The first time two months ago; again, one 
month later, and again, last night. Your heart 
is heavy." 



Eighty-Six A PICTURE SWEETHEART 

"Yes. The Father has said that I must re- 
gret and forget." 

"Forget, yes, forget." 

"It is impossible. Father, even with the help 
that you have given me, it is impossible." 

"You must think differently and it will not 
be so impossible." 

"Death would bring forgetfulness. Is it 
wrong to die? Would death save me?" 

"The thought is sin, my child." 

"I have not dared think that thought, 
though more than once it has forced its way 
into my mind, and there seems no other way 
to forget." 

"You are young. He is a Catholic?" 

"No." 

"Protestant?" 

"Yes." 

"Baptized?" 

"I think so." 

"And so full of guilt. What is his name, did 
you say?" 

"I did not say." 

"You must protect yourself. You must 
protect others. It is a duty you owe the 
church." 

"Father, I only speak his name in prayer." 

"I must hear you pray." 



A PICTURE SWEETHEART Eighty-Seven 

**I shall never tell his name." 

**My child, you do not realize his guilt." 

"Father, he is guiltless." 

"Guiltless?" 

"Yes, and I love him." 

"My child, the state of your mind is proof 
of his guilt. A guilt that is a menace to soci- 
ety and to the church." 

"He is guilty of no wrong." 

"Must I remind you of your confession?" 

"My confession?" 

"Yes; you said you loved him and that you 
were guilty of — " 

"That I was guilty. I, — alone. He needs 
no confession." 

"I do not understand." 

"You shall. Two years — about two years 
ago — I saw two pictures of a man. To me 
they were the cause of wild, sweet thoughts. 
The pictures were in the possession of a very 
dear girl friend of mine. Question after ques- 
tion I asked her until I was sure she thought 
me silly. She knew him and, fortunately, 
could answer my questions readily. I tried to 
beg from her both pictures. She let me have 
one of them. I slept that night with his pic- 
ture under my pillow, I dreamed of him. I 
dreamed he stood beside me while my mother 



Eighty-Eight A PICTURE SWEETHEART 

held my hand. He stooped and kissed me. 
Oh, if I had never wakened from that dream. 
Days passed and I put myself in his way. We 
met, — oh, no matter the excuse my mind de- 
vised. I found him as I had imagined him, — 
a clean, strong man; one to be loved, and 
Father, he was, and is loved. Those were 
happy days until in conversation one day he 
mentioned his wife. Surely it was not his 
fault that I was not made acquainted with the 
fact sooner; but. Father, it could have made 
no difference except in my making his ac- 
quaintance. I might not have done that, — 
and I might. After seeing him as often as 
possible in the almost two years that followed, 
I finally realized that I was guilty of sin, a 
depth of sin that can only be expressed by that 
most terrible of words — . I came to confes- 
sion. V/ith a heart full I knew I must confess 
all. Father, I did confess all. I was guilty 
of the thought of sin. There has never been 
a minute in all this time that I would not will- 
ingly have gone to him and taken him from — 
from the arm.s of his wife, if need be. He does 
not know. I came to you only after I had de- 
cided that he should never know my thoughts, 
and now the world seems dead and I wish 
that I were dead." 



A PICTURE SWEETHEART Eighty-Nine 

"Do not wish that, my child. Let me help 
you, not so much as a priest, but as a friend. 
Let me confess to you." 
"Father!" 

"Listen. While preparing for the priest- 
hood I met a girl. She was beautiful, accom- 
plished, sweet. She was everything that man 
could appreciate. I loved her and could not 
tell her. I, too, dreamed. Asleep and awake 
I dreamed. I tried to find some way until my 
brain was in a whirl. One day I decided to 
take fate in my own hands. I sought her and 
begged from her, her picture. My obhgations 
would not let me do more. A thousand times 
I have tried to burn — tear— destroy — that pic- 
ture." 

"Yes, Father." 

"I could not. A picture has been my sweet- 
heart. A picture— a picture has been my wife. 
I go to it in my sorrows and in my joys. I 
find in it the sweetest thoughts, the dearest 
companionship of my life. I never knew a 
mother. No ideal, no being was ever cher- 
ished in a man's life as my picture sweetheart 
is in mine. I imagine her now as grown grey 
and sweeter with the years. I have not seen 
her; I have known nothing of her for over 
twenty years. One night I dreamed she had 



Ninety A PICTURE SWEETHEART 

found her earthly mate. Another time, I was 
resting in the afternoon, I dreamed a terrible 
storm had broken and my mind was tortured 
more than I can tell, when suddenly peace and 
contentment followed the storm and as I slept, 
I saw her lying in a bower of roses. Her face 
reflected the glories of the parting day, and by 
her side a babe was nestled close to the moth- 
er's breast. What more could I ask? I sought 
my picture to thank her for that blessing." 

"You still love her. Father?" 

"Selfishness is pain. I love her and I love 
him and I love the babe. Some day, maybe, 
I may see them all." 

"Father, I think I see my way." 

"May you, my child. It is not a hard way. 
You have his picture. Will you take my ad- 
vice?" 

"Advice, Father?" 

"Yes, child. Return his picture." 

"You still have your picture. Father." 

"Yes, child, and no earthly vow will ever 
take it from me." 

"Nor mine. Father. May I see your pic- 
ture?*' 

"May I see yours?" 

"Father!" 

"Of course not; but you shall see mine." 



A PICTURE SWEETHEART Ninety-One 

He unlocked a drawer in the desk and re- 
moved a fire-proof box from which he took the 
portrait. He held it so she might see, as he 
said: "My picture." 

Florence looked eagerly, and recognizing 
the picture, exclaimed: "It is my mother." 

"Your mother?" 

"Yes." She quickly unfastened a locket 
which hung at her neck and showed the pic- 
ture it contained. "See ; my mother." 

He took the locket from her outstretched 
hand and gazed upon the picture. "The same. 
What have I done?" 

"Then your dream was true. I was that 
baby." 

"And your father, child; may I see him?" 

"My father is dead, but you may see 
mother." 

"No." The word sounded almost harsh. He 
looked again at the picture in the locket and 
compared it with his own. He looked at Flor- 
ence. "I can trust you, child. Never, no 
word?" 

"You can trust me. Father." 

"Here, your locket." He handed back the 
locket, quickly replaced his picture in the 
strong box, which he locked in the desk, 
secured his hat and coat, and said: "Come, 
then I will see her — only see — her again." 



Ninety-Two V-1-O-L-E-T 

V-I-O-L-E-T 



Tis said the violet but symbolizes love — 
A symbol truer far than cooing dove. 
No other flower has been so aptly named; 
No other flower will be so broadly famed. 

The "L," though fourth before, is first this 

time ; 
The "O" from third to second falls in line; 
The "V" from first to third, you surely see; 
The "E" completes the word, L — O— V— E. 

These letters out, what others may be found? 
The "I," the ''T," these two ; pass love around. 
Just see how much the violet contains, 
L-o-v-e is dropped, yet "it" remains. 

MY YACHT 



To sail the briny deep 

Has been my one "ambish" — 
This secret, I'll not keep: 

I also like to fish. 
And now I own a yacht. 

For it is sure I am 
I own the Rubaiyat 

Of old Omar Khayyam. 



WILD ROSES Ninety-Three 



WILD ROSES 



If you have never read Arthur McLean 
Evan's delightful short stories, do so when 
you have the opportunity. He writes to en- 
tertain, and his stories are masterpieces of 
constructive skill and imagery. He resides in 
the Arch City in Beekman street, in what he 
calls his forty-story house. Of course, the 
building is not of that extreme height ; in fact, 
it is one of those charming single story, ram- 
bling structures set back among the trees. 
The income from his book, entitled, "Forty 
Stories," provided the luxurious home, so, it 
really was a forty-story house. 

Arthur McLean Evans had been through 
the mill. From youth he had been alert, ac- 
tive, a reasonable student and a real worker. 
Even before leaving school, and for a time 
afterwards, he saw service with the large 
dailies of his city. Trivial incidents of his 
newspaper life became in later years wonder- 
ful romances. For years he had studied the 
public taste and had felt the public pulse. 
Knowledge, imagination and work did the 



Ninety-Four WILD ROSES 

rest. Beekman street, in fact the entire city, 
was proud of its author resident, and the 
forty-story house was a landmark. 

The demands upon the author's time were 
many. Four and five hours of the morning 
were devoted to work, and the late afternoons 
often found him deeply engaged. He arose 
from his desk, carefully gathered together his 
notes and laid them away for the day. He 
changed his coat, put on an old wide brimmed 
hat, picked up a cane and walked out into the 
air. Instantly, as some men learn to do, he 
put aside the cares of the day and sought the 
relaxation and consequent rest that the out of 
doors affords. Since success had been his, he 
had found his happiness, peacefully and with- 
out seeking the excitement that is supposed 
to exhilarate. He strolled among the trees. 
He breathed the pure air. He stopped walk- 
ing to listen to the cheerful song of a bird. 
He thought of the children who would soon 
be home from school. He approached the 
street slowly as he hummed a favorite air. 
He noticed a girl dressed in grey who stood 
on the walk. She looked up and down the 
street, apparently perplexed. Turning, she saw 
the author and, bowing demurely, asked: 
"Can you tell me, please, where I can find Mr. 



WILD ROSES Ninety-Five 

Evans? I am sure it is on this street, but I 
am told his house is very high." 

The author smiled as he replied: "I am 
Mr. Evans, but, as you see, my house is not 
very, not even moderately high. Will you 
come in?" 

"Yes, thank you," and she entered by the 
gate and together they walked to the house, 
talking as they walked. 

"Mr. Miller referred me to you." 

"Yes?" 

"You see, Mr. Evans, I am, well, I can 
hardly say, an author." 

"Indeed. A regular competitor?" 

"Oh, no, sir. Mr. Miller read one of my 
stories and said that he was sure that you 
would gladly help me. He said that you knew 
all about it, and that you would hear my story 
and make some valuable suggestions." 

"I am afraid our mutual friend is a flatterer." 

"Then you cannot — I mean, you will not 
help me?" 

"If I can, I will," and he smiled encourag- 
ingly as he said : "Come into the library." 

After they were comfortably seated, she 
. tried to speak and hesitated, somewhat con- 
fused. "O Mr. Evans, I forgot to introduce 
myself. I am Miss Ward." 



Ninety-Six WILD ROSES 

"Miss Ward. That will look well on a title 
page." 

"Yes, sir. Will you take the paper?" She 
held out a few well thumbed sheets. 

Noting her evident embarrassment, he 
thought to put her at her ease by asking: 
"How old are you, Miss Ward?" 

"xMmost seventeen." 

"Rather young for a novelist. Your parents 
are living?" 

"My mother is, and I have a little sister. I 
don't have much time for writing. You see, 
I work." 

"Writing is work." 

"Not with me." 

"You are fortunate." 

"I suppose so. You see, since father died I 
have not been able to go to school. I have 
been working for Mr. Miller, addressing en- 
velopes and folding circulars. It's pretty hard 
work, if you have ever tried it." 

The author nodded his head as if at some 
former time he had worked at such drudgery. 

"And then, there is so much to do around 
the house. Sometimes I feel that I really 
shouldn't take the time to try to write, but I 
do want to be more than I am — like you." 

Mr. Evans smiled, but the thought ran 



WILD ROSES Ninety-Seven 

through his mind wonderingly whether he 
was more than he was. 

"It is only after my little sister is asleep 
that I can possibly find time for the work I 
love. Of course, I love my little sister, and 
my mother, too. I do all I can to help them, 
but if I only could have some of my manu- 
scripts accepted — ." The thought was too 
much for her. It was a minute before she 
could continue. "One of the very best stories 
I ever wrote I sent to a magazine, and I guess 
I forgot to enclose postage for its return; at 
least, I never got it back. I have tried to 
write that story again, but I have never suc- 
ceeded. I sent this one away and it was just 
returned to me last Monday. Will you read 
it? It is not long." 

She offered the manuscript, but the author 
suggested that she read it to him. 

"I am not a very good reader, but I will do 
my best." 

While she had been talking she had run over 
the pages of her manuscript and a leaf had 
accidentally dropped to the floor. She picked 
up and replaced the stray leaf as she said: 
"The title is just 'Evangeline.* That is the 
name of the lady. I will try to read it so you 
will understand.'' After coughing slightly she 
commenced to read: 



Ninety-Eight WILD ROSES 

"The snow flakes fell—." 

"You won't laugh, will you, Mr. Evans? 
If you laugh, I'm sure I'll cry." 

"It is not a humorous story, then?" 

"Oh, no, sir, it is very serious. I expect 
that will be one of your criticisms. But I 
can't help it. I write as I feel." 

"That is the way to do," and with such en- 
couragement she read "Evangeline." 

"The snow flakes fell through the trees and 
the beautiful violet eyed Evangeline stood at 
the gorgeous draped window and sighed for 
her absent lover, and the warmth within m.ade 
the snow much colder in her heart. She did 
not have no dishes to wash as she was very 
rich and her servants did such things. The 
fire burned brightly in the beautiful old fire 
place and a huge mastiff lay on a beautiful 
bear skin rug before the fire which her friend 
had given her for Christmas. Hers was a 
very happy home. Her mother had been dead 
for a number of years and her father was a 
very busy man down to his office where he 
looked after all the money. Her little sister 
Gertrude, which they called Gerty for short 
was one of those dear little things which did 
not take much trouble to take care of for she 
seemed to miss her dear mother so greatly 



WILD ROSES Ninety-Nine 

that she did not have time for much else. 
Oftentimes Evangeline carried her baby sister 
by the hour just because she loved her so 
dearly, and then they would sit down together 
and talk of the days of long ago. Evangeline 
told her baby sister everything. She was^ 
asleep now, but that very morning Evangeline 
had taken Gerty in her plump arms and told 
her of her great love for Reginald who was 
coming to woo her and the little baby smiled 
just as if she understood and approved. Sht> 
did not know that when her loving sister went 
away on her wedding journey across the ocean 
that she would be left to the tender mercies 
of a nurse who would not love her as her dear 
sister did." 

"Mr. Evans, when I wrote that, the tears 
just streamed down my face. I can hardly 
read it now." 

"It is affecting," and the good man settled 
back in his chair for the continuation of the 
story. 

"Oh, do you think so? Thank you, thank 
you." 

The word of so famous an author meant 
much to the writer of "Evangeline," and she 
proceeded with the reading. 

"Evangeline was in distress. She walked 



One Hundred WILD ROSES 

among the flowers and tried to think of some 
way to pass the tedious time while her absent 
lover was away. She stooped and picked a 
wild rose blooming in the garden, just as an 
automobile drew up to the curb across the 
street. She thought at first that Reginald had 
come to take her for a spin in the park but 
it was the doctor calling upon a sick patient 
across the way. The rose she had plucked 
she daintily fixed in her beautiful blonde hair 
as she tried to decide what answer she should 
give him when Reginald should come for her 
answer which she had promised to give him 
when he should come for his an — ." She hesi- 
tated and then asked : "May I take your pen- 
cil? Thank you. That second, ^should come 
for his answer,* is unnecessary." She crossed 
out the offending phrase. The author nodded 
approval, and she continued: 

"How could she ever leave her dear little 
baby sister? How could she refuse the answer 
Reginald so much desired? He was such a 
dear boy and then he was very rich, how could 
she refuse him? But there was that dear little 
baby sister to be left to the tender mercies of 
strangers. Surely hers was a sore conflict 
between love and duty. While she was debat- 
ing these momentous questions she heard a 



WILD ROSES One Hundred One 

soft footstep behind her and she looked up 
into the loving eyes of Reginald." 

"I think that is a very strong climax," and 
she looked up for the author's approval. 

Evidently he did not understand, for he al- 
lowed the interruption to pass unnoticed. 

" *Dearest Evangeline, I have came for my 
answer as I said I would. Oh, keep me not 
in any more suspense.' 

"Evangeline fell upon the neck of her ardent 
lover and shed bitter tears for how could she 
marry him and leave her dear little baby sister 
to the tender mercies of — of others? 

"He kissed her rose bud mouth many times 
and it was many minutes before he could 
speak. When he did speak it was in a voice 
quivering with emotion as he said: *D-dear- 
est E-evangeline, d-do n-not g-give m-me 
y-your a-answer n-now.' " She stopped read- 
ing to ask: "Is that the way to write emo- 
tion?" 

"It does very well." 

"See what a noble man Reginald was for 
this was his answer: *I can wait, I have 
waited this long. I can and will wait until 
you say that you will be mine.' 

"And then she said : *0 Reginald, I do want 
to say what you want me to say, but there is 



One Hundred Two WILD ROSES 

my little baby sister, what, O what will be- 
come of her? I just cannot forsake her for, — 
not even for you Reginald.' 

"Reginald, with more emotion, replied: 
*W-what c-can w-we d-do?' 

"And then she said : *I guess that you will 
have to wait through the tedious years until 
Gerty grows up/ 

"Reginald then spoke brightly and said: 
'And marry Gerty?' 

"Evangeline cryed a bitter cry as she said: 
'Reginald, how could you?' 

"And then he said: 'There, there, dearest, 
don't cry. I did not mean nothing. I sup- 
pose I can wait, wait to the end of the world 
for you Evangeline to be my wife. Now you 
must be happy. Let us walk among the 
flowers and think and talk of the happy days to 
come when you and I will have no more trou- 
ble.' He stooped and plucked a rose which 
he placed in her hair to replace the one which 
had wilted in her golden hair. They were 
very happy these two as they strolled hand in 
hand among the flowers in the garden and he 
said to her: 

" 'Why can't we elope, dearest? I will take 
you far away and your little baby sister will 
never know. We will go in my automobile. 



WILD ROSES One Hundred Three 

You can put Gerty to sleep and then we will 
fly/ 

"And then she said in a quavering voice : *I 
cannot, O Reginald, I cannot,' so he talked 
to her of other things. 

"And then he said : *As I was taking a spin 
in my automobile this morning I found Gus 
Hayes and Miss Edmiston. His automobile 
had broken down and there they were. I 
didn't feel a bit sorry for Gus for he is always 
acting so smart but there was Miss Edmiston 
so I just took her home in my automobile. 
That is what m.ade me so late, Gus never 
even thanked me. We had an awful nice ride. 
I really never knew her until today. She is 
one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. I think 
I will take her for another ride this after- 
noon.' 

"Evangeline was not of a jealous nature so 
she said through her clenched teeth: *Far 
be it from me, Reginald, to criticise you in 
any particular but do you think that it is 
proper for you to be engaged to one girl and 
take another riding in your automobile? I 
will give you my answer right now. I don't 
like you and I never did like you. I will never 
marry you. O Reginald, how could you, how 
could you?' 



One Hundred Four WILD ROSES 

"That was too much for Reginald and he 
cried: *Do not say that, Evangeline, do not 
say that. I have never really loved any other 
woman. Evangeline, take back them cruel 
words. I love you, Evangeline and only you. 
Come and fly with me now.* 

"Evangeline looked up through her tears as 
she said: *0 Reginald, do you mean it?' 

"And he said: *You know I mean it Evan- 
geline.' 

"And then she said : 'What in the world 
will we do about Gerty?' She jumped up and 
down joyfully as she said: *Oh, I know. We 
can take her with us, can't we Reginald?' 

"And then Reginald said: *Why, of course 
we can. Why didn't we think of that sooner?' 

"They went into the house and Reginald 
kissed Evangeline and Evangeline kissed Reg- 
inald and the preacher came and married them 
and Reginald never took Miss Edmiston rid- 
ing in his automobile any more and Evange- 
line was very happy and Gerty did not have to 
be left to the tender mercies of strangers any 

more. 

FINIS" 

"That is the end of Evangeline, Mr. Evans. 
I hope you liked it. And it is all spelled cor- 



WILD ROSES One Hundred Five 

rectly. You can see for yourself. I looked up 
every word in the dictionary." 

The author leaned back in his chair. He felt 
the weight of the problem before him. He 
knew he should and would tell the aspiring 
authoress the truth, but just how much of the 
truth to tell was the question. He spoke 
slowly and kindly: 

"Miss Ward, do you realize how very many 
authors there are in the world?" 

She looked up shyly. "You mean like me?" 

"Not exactly. Miss V/ard. There are so 
many all together that it is very necessary for 
anyone to have at command every possible 
advantage in order to prove successful." 

"You mean, I cannot write?" 

"I did not say that. Miss Ward, through 
the suggestion of Mr. Miller, you have come 
to me for help." 

"Yes, sir." 

"You say that you have been working for 
Mr. Miller. Are you not working for him 
now ?" 

"No, sir. Mr. Miller's work is all finished. 
He has promised to help me find some other 
work to do." 

'*How would you like to work for me, learn 



One Hundred Six WILD ROSES 

to use the typewriter and help me write my 
stories for awhile?" 

"You mean, go into partnership with you? 
Is *Evangeline' that good?" 

The author's heart was strong and he did 
not faint, but he smiled faintly, saying : "Not 
just exactly a partnership. I shall pay you for 
your work as Mr. Miller did, and through ex 
perience we will hope that you will improve 
in your use of language so that you will some 
day have some of your very own manuscripts 
accepted by the magazines. Why, child, what 
are you doing?" 

While he was speaking, his full meaning 
seemed to dawn on her mind, for she tore 
"Evangeline" into strips. In reply to his ques- 
tion, she sobbed: "I know, now, what you 
think of ^Evangeline' ; but Mr. Evans, don't 
think that I do not appreciate your kindness. 
I will work hard to please you." A smile 
showed through the tears as she thanked him 
again and again for his generous offer. 

"Some day you will rewrite 'Evangeline,' 
and you and I will both be very proud of her." 

"Oh, do you think so?" 

"I am sure. If you will come tomorrow at 
eight-thirty we will go to work." The author 
opened the door and his newly engaged assist- 



WILD ROSES One Hundred Seven 

ant left, thanking him for his generosity and 
kindness. He closed the door and slowly 
walked to the window, where he stood watch- 
ing the girl while she almost ran to take the 
good news to her mother. Half aloud he said : 
"Well, I made that story end happily. I am 
glad I did not tell her that when the snow fell 
through the trees it should blast the wild rose 
buds in the garden.*' 



One Hundred Eight A SUNBURNED NOSE 



A SUNBURNED NOSE 



With the s:lories of the setting sun across the 
delC 

And the beauty of the hillside where the sha- 
dows fell, 

As the hot and sultry day came to its humid 
close, 

Did mosquitoes ever bite you on a sunburned 
nose? 

Your good health's the secret and real charm 

of happy life, 
For it helps your disposition and avoids all 

strife. 
You'd not kick about your headaches and 

corns on your toes 
If mosquitoes ever bit you on a sunburned 

nose. 

Oh, the doctor and his medicines can cure 
all ills. 

He will do it with his liquids and his funny 
pills. 

He can neutralize the hurt of all chronic woes 

But mosquito bites when bitten on a sun- 
burned nose. 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Hundred Nine 



A PULLMAN PORTER 



He went aboard the Pullman sleeper Long- 
shot at three-thirty-seven and three-fourths 
P. M. The train pulled out at three-thirty- 
eight. He had just had an hour, between 
trains, in the Western metropolis, in which to 
make sundry needful purchases. There was 
no mistaking the fact that he was a stranger 
in a strange land. He walked, in entering the 
car, as if he owned something. He wore his 
gold-rimmed nose glasses as if he were un- 
reasonably sure that he knew something. 
While not exactly faultlessly dressed, he was, 
at least figuratively, spotless. That was out 
of his beaten path of custom, for his very 
spotlessness disturbed him. He even refused 
to allow a fly a resting place on his cuff. 

After the Pullman porter had deposited the 
traveling bag on the forward seat of number 
seven, the gentleman polished and poised his 
glasses and surveyed the car and its occu- 
pants. He found no one taking a like interest 
in himself, consequently that pastime soon 
gave place to an examination of the contents 
of his grip. 



One Ten A PULLMAN PORTER 

Had he been aware of all the interest he 
had created in at least one of his fellow pas- 
sengers, he might have completed his journey 
with more credit to himself and with much 
less waste of inventive genius in the weaving 
of the yellowest of yellow fiction. 

Across the aisle, and one section forward, 
sat a middle-aged woman. By her side her 
daughter concealed herself behind a late maga- 
zine. 

When the lone occupant of number seven 
entered, the little lady across the way mentally 
took his measure. From behind her magazine 
she noted every little detail to the destruction 
of the cuff bespoiling fly. He was post- 
marked and his stamp was cancelled in much 
less time than it takes the master of a country 
post office to obliterate the usefulness of 
Uncle Sam's red pasters. 

The mother had not noticed her daughter's 
divided attention. No sooner had the travel- 
ing bag been deposited in number seven than 
it was possible for the lady in number ten to 
read the tag thereon. It was one of those nice 
little leather-bound affairs, and bore the in- 
scription, '*T. Franklin Porter, Shadeville, 
Ohio." Number ten smiled as she copied the 
name and address upon the margin of her 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Eleven 

magazine. When and where she had heard 
of the town of Shadeville she could not re- 
member. She had never heard the name T. 
Franklin Porter, but in her vivid imagination 
she mentally remarked: "The first time I 
ever saw a white Porter of a Pullman. I won- 
der if he would come if I'd ring; but maybe 
he is not white. I'll not ring." 

T. Franklin Porter was not a sport; he was 
not even a traveling man. He had never been 
far away from Shadeville before. Since his 
early marriage, some eight years previous to 
this trip, he had amassed two hundred and 
thirty-four dollars as a notary public and capi- 
talist of Shadeville. He had been on one or 
two excursions to Cedar Point in the course 
of time, and he knew that the only safe way 
to travel was to be accompanied by a bottle of 
rye. He had seen decidedly sporty fishermen 
magnanimously pass the bottle of snake-bite 
to their fellow travelers and among his sun- 
dry purchases a pint of the best was the first. 
Knowing that "A stitch in time saves," he 
opened his grip and removed a dainty glass 
and his pint of Old Kintuck. He glanced 
about the car, and as before, he was traveling 
alone. T. Franklin did not know that the 
green covered magazine was but a screen 



One Twelve A PULLMAN PORTER 

around which his every movement was being 
watched. He thought he wouldn't hit it very 
hard, as he poured out about two fingers and 
replaced the bottle in the grip. He had never 
taken his without a wash, and he was about to 
repair to the water cooler for a chaser when 
number ten lowered her magazine, and as the 
morning's sun dispels the shadows of early 
dawn, so the light of her luminous eyes un- 
loosed the blankness of the benighted mind of 
T. Franklin Porter. What instantaneous ef- 
fect! But, no, he had not yet quaffed his 
traveling companion; at least, he still held in 
his hand the crystal shell and its contents. He 
slowly raised his glass and his eyes again met 
hers of number ten. He lowered his glass and, 
incidentally, his eyes. After due deliberation 
and much speculation as whether to drink or 
not to drink, he again raised his glass and, 
regardless of all observers, drink the whiskey. 
The blush that came to his face may have been 
due to the lack of a chaser, although the lady 
of number ten was quite sure that the blush 
was due to shame. Poor lady. T. Franklin 
Porter never blushed excepting at such times 
as he drank whiskey straight. He did not 
blush again on the entire trip. He made it a 
point to have a wash. 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Thirteen 

As before noted, Mr. Porter was a married 
man. What a knockout blow that statement 
can be made under the proper, or improper, 
conditions, when just the right emphasis is 
employed. He had literally fallen all over 
himself when a demure little golden-haired 
miss had promised to become his wife. His 
own regard for himself was of smallest conse- 
quence at that time. He knew he was in great 
good luck when any woman would take unto 
herself the fourfold burden of his bringing 
up. For awhile he was grateful, then becom- 
ing a notary public and almost a lawyer, he 
outgrew some of the backwardness of his early 
manhood. After eight years he became so im- 
bued with self-importance that he had almost 
forgotten the still fair cause and constant help 
of her who bore his name. 

Well, what has all this to do with this 
story? Not a thing; so we will go back into 
the Pullman. Look out — the train is moving 
very rapidly. You're on, good. The lady had 
moved from number ten to number three. 
Mother is still in number ten, taking a nap. 
T. Franklin Porter was in section number 
three. How did he — ? Who knows? Who 
would tell if they did know by what supreme 
nerve he managed to acquire a seat in number 



One Fourteen A PULLMAN PORTER 

three? He was comfortably seated in number 
three, however, and the lady was daintily pre- 
senting, from her Parisian purse, three cloves, 
as she said : "I wanted to offer them sooner." 

As T. Franklin Porter accepted the killers, 
he remarked: "Oh, now/* He was a kind of 
a mush, this T. Franklin Porter. 

"My name is Franklin." 

"Benjamin?** 

"Now, no. Thomas, but I just sign it T. 
Franklin." 

"I'd resign it in favor of Ben." 

"Now, please don't jest. I am a banker." 

"Sand or faro?" 

"Now. You don't believe me. Really I am 
a banker. I am V. P. of our bank." 

"V. P. Very poor?" 

"Now. No. Vice President." 

"Do you spell it V-I-S-E?" 

"Why, I think that is the way. Isn't it?" 

"Yes. Oh, yes. How far do you go?" 

"Back to Boston. That is where the bank 
is. Do you go that far?" 

"Thank heaven, no. Would you mind get- 
ting me a glass of water?" 

T. Franklin immediately returned to num- 
ber seven and procuring his dainty shell, pro- 
ceeded to fill it at the water cooler and re- 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Fifteen 

turned to number three. If he had been at 
home and his wife had requested a drink h^. 
would have saved himself fatigue by telling 
her to get it for herself. She had long ago 
learned better than to ask. But this is dif- 
ferent. 

"Allow me, my own glass." 

"How nice," and, after drinking, "Why did 
you rinse the glass?" 

He reached for the glass with, "Would 
you?" 

"Oh, no, thank you. The cloves were mere- 
ly a luxury, not a necessity. I don't drink 
whiskey. I just wanted you to know that I 
saw you." 

"Yes, I seen — I saw, you seen me. Do you 
have a machine?" 

"Yes; a Singer." 

"A Singer, now. I mean an automobile." 

"Oh, no; but I have a friend who has one, 
and that saves tire bills." 

"Now." He never saw it at all. "I own 
one, a runabout." 

"Run about half the time?" 

"Now. I'm a lawyer, too, and a notary pub- 
lic and a justice of the peace. I could marry 
you." 

"How nice. You will find mother back in 
another seat." 



One Sixteen A PULLMAN PORTER 

"Now." 

"Oh, you mean you could perform the cere- 
mony." 

"Yes, and kiss the bride." 

"I imagine you are kept pretty busy." 

"In the bank?" 

"No; kissing brides." 

"Now. No, I never married any one ye — " 

''Excepting, of course, your wife." 

As has been said, T. Franklin Porter did not 
blush again on that trip, but he began to have 
a feeling of distant shame. He would have 
liked to commence to tell the truth to the little 
lady by his side. He sparred for an opening, 
but without success. He v/as floundering in 
too deep water considering his skill as a 
swimmer. He was one of those fellows who 
believe in the professional or business lie. He 
did not think it wrong to create an erroneous 
im.pression for a purpose. He had skilled 
himself in the telling of lies, but he was too 
crude to make of his efforts a finished and 
artistic success. 

"You haven't told me your name." 

"I haven't told you even a part of it, have I ?" 

"No." He wondered just what she intended 
to convey. "But you will tell me your name?" 

"Will I?" I suppose I will be handing you 
my purse to keep for me." 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Seventeen 

"You can deposit your money in my bank." 

"Yes, of course. That's easy; but could I 
draw it out?'* 

"Now. Whenever you wish." 

The lady played with her purse while talk- 
ing. She opened and closed it frequently. 
Cautiously she removed everything of value. 
T. Franklin was sitting at her right, talking 
aimlessly. Her right hand, holding the purse, 
carelessly fell to her side. When she raised 
her hand again the purse had disappeared. 

They talked at random while the train 
passed from daylight into the night. 

Mother^s nap was interrupted by the stop- 
ping of the train at a water tank. She was 
startled by her daughter's absence. Before 
realizing her surroundings she called sharply, 
"'Lizzie!'* The young lady, in fact, everyone 
in the car, heard distinctly, but she made no 
move to answer the summons. The old lady 
rubbed her eyes, fanned herself with a news- 
paper, and discovered her daughter's presence 
in number three. 

Lizzie waited a reasonable time and making 
some slight excuse, returned to number ten. 

T. Franklin returned to number seven with 
a supreme feeling of conquest. He had no 
suspicion that his fair inamorata's name was 



One Eighteen A PULLMAN PORTER 

Lizzie. He rather thought of her as Geraldine 
or Florence or Clementine. He knew, in re- 
turning to number seven that from that point 
of vantage he could continue the innocent flir- 
tation. 

The mother being reassured by the daugh- 
ter's return, began to doze again. 

Lizzie opened her hand bag and searched for 
something she seemed unable to find. She re- 
moved everything from the hand bag and then 
thoughtfully replaced the contents. She felt 
in her pockets. She looked down the aisle. 
Eventually she left number ten to carefully 
examine number three. 

T. Franklin did not leave number seven. 
He was, however, much interested in the 
movements of the lady, but he felt some mis- 
givings. Possibly he had some slight pre- 
sentiment of what was to follow. 

As Lizzie returned to number ten, her 
mother looked up inquiringly: "What is the 
matter, child?" 

"I have mislaid my purse, and can't find it 
anywhere." She really looked troubled. 

"Your ticket? No; I have that." The 
mother nervously opened her purse to make 
sure of the safety of their transportation. She 
was pale instantly. The tickets were gone. 



A PULLMAN PORTER One Nineteen 

"Don't be frightened, mother. The conduc- 
tor took our tickets so that we would not be 
disturbed in the night. They will be returned 
to us in the morning." 

"Oh, to be sure ; but the money. There was 
money in the purse?" 

"There was, a little." 

"What could have become of it?" 

"I suppose the Porter picked it up. All 
Pullman porters are robbers." This was said 
loud enough to be heard by the occupant of 
number seven. He arose and leaning over the 
back of the seat, asked : "Have you lost some- 
thing?" 

"Oh, nothing much; only my purse." 

'*You had it in your hand while we were 
speaking of the bank. I wish I could find it 
for you." He looked several places where the 
purse could not possibly be. 

"Oh, I guess you can find it all right." 

"What do you mean?" He straightened up 
with the dignity of a Boston banker. 

"If I had thought that you really needed 
the money — " This was said in such an in- 
sinuating way that the mother said: "Lizzie, 
be careful." 

"Yes, mother, I will be careful; but if I 
could only — I'd like to look in his pockets." 



One Twenty A PULLMAN PORTER 

» 

"Miss "Lizzie V There was much emphasis 
on the z's. "You may look in my pockets.'* 
With the confidence of right he held open his 
left side coat pocket first and there — in plain 
sight — was the much sought purse. 

Back to Shadeville for T. Franklin. 

Miss Lizzie gratefully accepted the s^;viftly 
proffered purse, saying: "Thank you. I v/as 
sure you would return it to me." She gave 
him one of her most winning smiles. 

T. Franklin could only return to his seat, 
saying to himself: "Well, what do you think 
of that? Wouldn't that m.ake you catch your 
breath? I am afraid of that woman. She's 
dangerous." Later he thought more kindly, 
than he had in years, of the little wife in 
Shadeville. 

The real porter came and made up the 
berths. 

Lizzie awoke the next morning, wondering 
what she would do next to tease T. Franklin, 
but as all flirtations end abruptly and with 
slight satisfaction, so did this one. T. Frank- 
lin had reached his destination in the early 
morning. A grey-haired and bulky traveling 
salesm.an occupied number seven, and he was 
not attracted by Miss Lizzie's laughing eyes. 



TWO FLAGS One Twenty-One 



TWO FLAGS 



We come to honor and to bless two flags: 
Great Britain's silken scarf entwined with 

ours 
In an embrace of confidence and love 
That springs from nature's closest ties of life. 

As Britain's flag floats from her own proud 

mast, 
She greets the Stars and Stripes across the 

sea. 
Each cresting wave bears messages of love, 
Each zephyr bears esteem as true as steel. 

And in return the Stars and Stripes send back 
The same glad tidings of respect and love, 
As does the child in filial reverence 
When far away from his parental home. 

So let us bless these flags of Saxon race, 
For they are ours to cherish and respect; ^ 
And may they ever hold their honored place 
Supreme, among the nations of the earth. 



One Twenty-Two WILLIE POORE 



WILLIE POORE 



My father's name is Poore, you see, 
Just common P double O, R, E. 

You need not ask, "What's in a name?" 
For ours and fortune's is the same. 

A bunch of thirteen kids forlorn, 
I found at home when I was born. 

We were and always would be poor. 
So they just named me Will B. Poore. 

My pa and ma are good to me. 

For I am valuable, you see; 
For 'twas the luckiest thing they'd seen — 

I broke the hoo-doo of thirteen. 

And if five girls and four more boys 
Should follow us fourteen decoys. 

Why, with nine more, we'd poorer be, 
For we would be just twenty-three. 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Twenty-Three 



A BRIGHT FELLOW 



The formality of presenting his friend to 
his hostess was safely over, and Franklin 
Courtney celebrated the fact with, "Come on, 
old man, the bars are down." 

His companion pulled himself together in 
anticipation of greater events as he said: 
"V/ait, the game is not half played. Let us 
hurry." 

The two leisurely strolled from room to 
room, Courtney speaking to acquaintances as 
they passed. Evidently he was looking for 
some one in particular. 

The stranger was one of those medium- 
sized, well-rounded men who are so fortunate 
as to average well in physique and consequent- 
ly in appearance. The only remarkable thing 
about him was his blonde hair, which was the 
cause of envy in the minds of several fair 
ladies that evening, and his mustache and Van 
Dyke matched perfectly. His male ancestors 
might easily have been Norse Vikings. Sud- 
denly he touched Courtney on the arm. 

"There she is. Don't look. She has already 
seen us. V/ho is she talking with?" 



One Twenty-Four A BRIGHT FELLOW 

They halted as Courtney nodded to a group 
of friends. Under his breath he replied: "I 
don't know, old man; a couple of elderly 
ladies. Shall we go over?" 

"Try and catch her alone. I'm not feeling 
very steady." 

"Brace up, old man. You're not a bad actor. 
By the way, what's your name?" 

"What did you call me when you presented 



me 



r' 



"Hanged if I know. Wouldn't that startle 
you? Talk about carelessness. Wait a min- 
ute. Oh, I know, Andrews, Hal. Andrews. 
The name of an old school boy friend of mine. 
He will never come back. He is dead. Here 
is our chance. She is alone. Come." 

"Mrs. Adair, allow me to present Mr. Hal. 
Andrews, an old friend of mine. He is a great 
traveler. He can tell you a lot of funny 
stories. Be patient with him a little while, 
will you? I want to find Dolly and then I'll 
look you up." The rascal almost ran to get 
away, 

Mrs. Adair received her new acquaintance 
graciously, making him feel very much at 
home. 

They were a charming pair, these two. 
Evidently they were very much interested in 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Twenty-Five 

each other. They had, at least, found subjects 
of mutual interest, for while they were the 
objectives of innumerable glances, they were 
apparently as much alone as if they were up 
in a balloon. No one came close enough to 
overhear even a scrap of their conversation. 

Courtney returned in an unnecessarily brief 
time. 

"Mrs. Adair, Hal. and I have an important 
engagement. We will return this way about 
eleven. May we pick you up or will that be 
too early?" 

Mrs. Adair expressed her pleasure in accept- 
ing the kindness. 

As Courtney dragged Andrews away he 
whispered in his ear : "Come, man, you didn't 
think I was going to let you stay here the en- 
tire evening, did you?" 

Courtney returned about eleven and met 
Mrs. Adair at the door. 

"I thought Mr. Andrews would be with 
you." 

"He is waiting in the machine." 

Courtney handed Mrs. Adair in. She 
greeted Mr. Andrews as she took her seat by 
his side. Courtney took the wheel and in ten 
minutes he skillfully drew up to the Adair 
porte-cochere. 



One Twenty-Six A BRIGHT FELLOW 

Andrews alighted and assisted Mrs. Adair 
to the door. As they stood there, Courtney 
deliberately drove away. 

With an exclamation, Andrews remarked in 
his peculiar drawl : "I suppose he will tell me 
that he went out to turn around." 

"You can stop a minute, then. It isn't late." 

"No; but Thursday," he said, hoarsely. 

Mrs. Adair entered the house and the erst- 
v/hile Hal. Andrews was soon lost in the night. 
The following Thursday afternoon Mrs. Don- 
na Adair, wife of Robert Adair, stood at a 
window of their home intently looking out 
upon the street. She suddenly pulled the dra- 
peries together and listened expectantly until 
she heard the ring of the bell. She then 
dropped lazily into a convenient chair. 

In response to the bell a maid opened the 
door and on the statement of Mr. Hal. An- 
drews that Mrs. Adair was expecting him, the 
maid directed him to the parlor by a wave of 
her hand. 

Mr. Andrews deliberately removed his hat 
and coat. His hands were still gloved when 
he entered the room. He approached the chair 
and looked intently upon its occupant. 

Mrs. Adair's eyes met his as she said: 
"Then you did come?" 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Twenty-Seven 

"Yes;! didn't you expect me?" 
"I don't know. I suppose I did." 
Andrews laid his hand on the back of her 
chair while he spoke. 

"To tell the truth, I have not the remotest 
idea of what was said; but for three days I 
have known that I would be here at this hour. 
Now I am here, my dear Mrs. Adair, I must 
give vent to all the thoughts that have made 
of my brain a whirlpool since we met last." 

Mrs. Adair started as if on the point of 
speaking. Laying a gentle hand on her shoul- 
der, he continued: 

"Oh, I know what you are about to say; 
that we first met less than one week ago, that 
this is only the third time that we have looked 
into each others' eyes. Do you know, it 
seems to me that we have known each other 
for years, — for always? When Courtney pre- 
sented me at the Knowles' I did not catch the 
*Mrs.' the prefix to your name, and the thought 
that came instantly to my mind, — dare I 
speak that thought? I see it is not necessary. 
Since then I have learned something of your 
husband. I did not know him. Judging fron. 
what I have learned, he is not half bad. He is 
deeply interested in his work, a big work, I 
understand; scientific, is it not? He has no 



One Twenty-Eight A BRIGHT FELLOW 

time for the lighter side of life. I had not 
talked with you five minutes before I realized 
that you were worse than married." 

Mrs. Adair hid her face on the arm of th». 
chair. Andrews continued: 

"It was not pity that first stirred me, but 
your own veiled confessions, the sadness in 
your eyes brought the feeling. Don't mis- 
understand me. I am not here out of pity. I 
am here because — because — Mrs. Adair, can 
I not, in some way, make — help to make your 
life happier? Oftentimes the understanding 
of a friend makes sadness sv/eeter. I cannot 
but think that I have come into your — that 
you have come into my life for some good 
purpose. I do not want to say things to you 
that will sound to you like flattery, and yet, — 
I do want you to know how much — how very 
much I appreciate your friendship. It is the 
first of its kind that has ever come into my 
life. You are the first of all women to make 
me feel how vacant my life has been. Whether 
there be a kindred feeling in your mind, or 
whether it be a weird something in your ma- 
jestic beauty, I cannot tell. All I know is, I 
am drawn irresistibly toward you and I am 
enthusiastically glad. I do not desire to bring 
unhappiness to your husband. I do not de- 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Twenty-Nine 

spise, nor do I hate him. If he is the cause 
of your seeming unhappiness, I might be 
justly angry. I regret that we did not meet 
sooner, you and I — much sooner in life. I am 
sure I might have offered all he has given, — 
and more. I am sure you would have never 
been neglected for long. Surely, a man can be 
little less than a brute, — pardon me, please. I 
shall not forget and speak of him again. I 
only want to talk with you of your life and 
mine. They seem to me so closely linked. If 
I might take you in my arms and let you 
know — let you realize all the love one man 
feels — one who has lately found his heart and 
his heart's desire. Your eyes have called to 
me in my sleep. Sleeping and waking I 
dream of you, — you always. I look upon you 
as the one grand fulfillment of a heart's long- 
ing. Oh, how I have wanted to tell you all 
this and more. While I have known you the 
world has grown better, brighter. I dare not 
think of the past, with all its darkness ana 
lonesomeness. You surely do care, for — in 
your heart of hearts there is some responsive- 
ness. One could never care, never think so 
much of another as I think of you without 
striking some note of mutual feeling in the 
other. That is life. How considerate you are 



One Thirty A BRIGHT FELLOW 

to listen to all I have to say. Never was there 
a desire as great as mine to say to you all I 
feel. Let me take you in my arms and call 
you — " 

"Mr. Andrews," Mrs. Adair arose and 
leaned against the chair while she spoke. "Mr. 
Andrews, please, please do not say more. I 
have listened to you and I know the kind of 
man you are. Do not misunderstand me. I 
am more at fault than you. I have listened 
and, listening, I have made you bold. Do not 
think it is nothing to a woman to realize that 
it is still within her power to stir within a 
man's mind thoughts of love. You deserve 
some little punishment, and I stop you now 
so that you will not deserve too much. I have 
been thinking what I should say to you. You 
must know, on sober reflection, that I have 
not played with you nor with your feelings. I 
speak to you in all friendliness. If my hus- 
band would come to me as you have done, 
and talk to me as you have, I would be the 
happiest woman in the world. You must 
know, Mr. Andrews, fads and even follies 
may come into a woman's life for a time, but 
she never entirely loses her interest in, and 
her love for her home. You must meet Bob. 
You must know him. He is a man to quite 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Thirty-One 

win your heart. I sometimes think I am at 
fault. I surely might have made his burdens 
of the past two years much lighter. We have 
only gradually drifted apart; and yet, if he 
were to come into this room right now, I am 
sure you could detect no unpleasant condi- 
tions." 

Mrs. Adair resumed her seat and talked in 
a reminiscent mood, while Andrews quietly 
stepped backward to an electrolier that stood 
near the entrance. He removed his beautiful 
blonde hair, mustache and Van Dyke as he 
intently watched to see that Mrs. Adair did 
not turn and see him. He pasted the make- 
up upon the white globe of the electrolier and 
lighted the lights. He cleaned his face with 
his handkerchief and pulled his v/atch fob out 
of his pocket, where it had been hidden to 
escape detection. He removed his gloves, that 
were evidently worn to cover up certain char- 
acteristics of the hands. He stood between 
the electrolier and Mrs. Adair. Had she 
turned, she would not have seen the grotesque 
appearance of the globe. 

"He is a wonderful man in many respects. 
Do you know, I almost shudder when I think 
how easy it would be for me to be very fool- 
ish. I enjoy society. I love a good time. I 



One Thirty-Two A BRIGHT FELLOW 

am partial to attentions. I am proud, too, ot 
Bob Adair's success. I am proud to be known 
as Mrs. Bob. It makes me angry instantly to 
have any one notice his neglect. Some day, I 
am sure, it will come out all right. Come, 
Mr. Andrews, draw up a chair and let us talk. 
Why can't you help me?" 

In a changed and more natural voice the 
man spoke. 

"Donna." 

Mrs. Adair jumped from her chair. Why, 
Bob, when did you come? Where is he? 
Where did he go?" 

"He, who, where? Who do you mean, 
Donna?" 

"Why, Mr. Andrews, of course. You must 
have met him." 

Bob Adair took his wife in his arms and 
gently forced her back into her chair as he 
said: "You have been asleep. Donna, dream- 
ing. I hope I have some very good news for 
you, my Donna. Vacation time has come. 
My work is finished — finished yesterday. I 
have been asleep since then until an hour ago. 
I have had some great experiences the past 
two years. When we have time — I must tell 
you of one right now. May I?" 

"Surely, Bob, do." 



A BRIGHT FELLOW One Thirty-Three 

"Last Thursday, a very good friend of mine, 
Courtney, the actor, you remember him, was 
called into consultation in regard to certain 
evidence he was to give in behalf of the 
government. While talking to him on the art 
of make-up, you know, as employed upon the 
stage, he dropped the remark that he could so 
disguise a man's features that he would not 
be recognized by his own wife. On the 
strength of a treat, I defied him and in a half 
hour, under his manipulations, I hardly rec- 
ognized myself. It was early evening, Court- 
ney was dining with the Knowles'. I was 
sure of finding you there. He was keen to see 
the completion of the story, so he slipped me 
in as an out-of-town friend and presented me 
to you." 

"Bob." 

"Oh, I know. It was risky, but I know my 
wife. I was not afraid." 

"Bob, how long have you been traveling 
with this rapidity?" 

"I was not aware of any speed limit." 

"The doubt I feel is, that this masquerade 
may have extended over the past two years, 
rather than just beginning last Thursday." 

"No you don't. Donna. Look at me, dear. 
That masquerade was the luckiest experience 



One Thirty-Four A BRIGHT FELLOW 

of my life. But for it I would never have 
heard you say : *If my husband would come to 
me as you have, and talk to me as you have, 
I would be the happiest woman in the world.' 
Those were your words, dear, and they made 
me the happiest man in the world." 

Dropping on his knees in front of her, and 
leaning so that he might be close to her, he 
said: "Tell me, Donna; tell me you forgive 
me for the deception." 

"I do forgive you, Bob, but, Courtney — 
never. No wonder he drove away. He had 
brought you home." 

Bob Adair arose and lifted his wife to his 
knee as he took a seat facing the electrolier. 
He took her in his arms and kissed her, as he 
said: "For the balance of our lives, dear, you 
and I will be chums." 

She took his head lovingly in her hands 
while she whispered: "Bob, that is the first 
time I have been kissed in months." 

He kissed her again as he said: "We will 
make up for lost time, my Donna. Dear, look 
at Hal. Andrews; isn't he a bright fellow?" 



NEXT TO YOU One Thirty-Five 



NEXT TO YOU 



Did you ever go a swimmin' when a boy; 

Over head and over hands and deeper too? 
Did you wear a bathing suit? Not you; O, 
joy! 

When the water felt so kind o' next to you. 

Do you ever go a swimmin' now you're old? 

Do you wear a bathing suit exposed to view? 
Oh ! its great, just by the wavelets to be rolled, 

When the water feels so kind o* next to you? 

Did you ever organize a modern trust; 
Take their money from all friends you ever 
knew? 
Did you ever think how easy you might 
"bust;" 
When the water feels so kind o' next to you? 



One Thirty-Six U R A J 2 B EZ 



U R A J 2 B EZ 



When chappy tries his little touch 
For five or ten, 'tis then we see, 

It makes no difference just how "much,** 
U R A J 2 B EZ. 

When long-haired Willie strikes the town, 
His backer for a bed you'll be; 

For breakfast, too, you will "go down," 
U R A J 2 B EZ. 

When blonded lady with her smile 

And tickets comes, just "twenty-three**; 

But no, you'll stay and chat awhile, — 
U R A J 2 B EZ. 

When your best friend must give a bond. 
Take our advice and skidoo, flee; 

But no, you'll stay until you're "con'd" — 
U R A J 2 B EZ. 



A MODEL WIFE One Thirty-Seven 



A MODEL WIFE 



The fact that it was an artist's studio was 
evident. The place was literally littered with 
evidence. It was the studio of a painter who 
was also a sculptor. Charcoal sketches, oil 
paintings, with and without frames, adorned 
the walls. Tapestries, bric-a-brac and antique 
and modern weapons made of the studio a 
great big cozy corner. Plaster arms defied 
the lightning, although widely separated from 
head, torso and legs, which were scattered 
around the room. The furniture was as elabo- 
rate and as varied as may be found in an up- 
to-date photograph gallery. High backed, 
wide armed, carved and plain chairs and tab- 
ourets offered comfort at every turn. A black 
walnut easel supported a landscape in just 
the right light. In the center of the studio 
stood a modeling stand which bore a large 
clay figure well damp in rags. The throne 
stood near the modeling stand, under the sky- 
light. Behind the throne an elaborate Japa- 
nese screen hid that corner of the studio. The 
screen was, in itself, a work of art, but why do 



One Thirty-Eight A MODEL WIFE 

we linger over it? V/hat potent force impels 
us to look behind the screen in an artist's 
studio? Does a sensitive nostril detect some 
delicate perfume? Turn a boy loose in an 
artist's studio and he will be behind the screen 
before he has examined one-tenth of the other 
curiosities the room contains. Probably a 
straight backed chair and a well stocked pin 
cushion are the only properties of that seclu- 
sion. 

Come into the studio and inhale the atmos- 
phere of art. Look upon the works of the 
hand and brain of a master and think of him.. 
Vvhat of him? What of life has he seen to be 
so much a creator? Is he grey haired? Is he 
old? Is he bent with the weight of years and 
experience? Look at the painting upon the 
easel, evidently just finished. Yes, it is still 
wet. \¥hatever the painting is, so is the mas- 
ter. A faint cloud of smoke betrays the pres- 
ence of that individual. There he sits at a 
desk, writing — smoking. He is not old, at 
least, in years. As he sits there, dressed in 
his black velvet painting clothes, he is as much 
a picture as one who admires portraits could 
desire. His massive head and thoughtful face 
top a frame that sways with a grace that 
strength of physical power bestows. His very 
name, Eric, is significant of power. 



A MODEL WIFE One Thirty-Nine 

Eric dropped his pen upon the desk and 
slowly filled and lighted his pipe. He read the 
letter he had been v/riting. Suddenly he 
looked at his watch and tossing the letter upon 
the desk, he jumped up and ran to the door 
and looked out. Returning he walked over 
to the modeling stand and removed the rags 
from a portion of the figure. He touched the 
clay gently and replaced the rags. He glanced 
toward the door. He knocked the ashes out 
of the pipe and laid it upon the modeling 
stand. He stood with his back to the door as 
it opened. 

There were pictures everywhere, but still 
another was, for a moment, framed by the 
doorway. She had com.e to pose. She was a 
model. She was more beautiful, more human, 
than the classic Grecian as she stood there 
poised for a word before entering. 

"Is it my hour?" 

Eric turned like a flash. ''Hello, Rita. Yes, 
com^e in. You are always on time." 

"Am I?" 

"I haven't done a bit of work this morning. 
Maurice was in for awhile and I have been 
writing letters. I guess I am lazy." 

She removed her hat and cloak and hung 
them behind the screen. She came out and 



One Forty A MODEL WIFE 

noticed the picture upon the easel. She 
stopped before the picture. "Oh, yes, poor 
fellow. You are lazy. When did you finish 
this?" 

Eric removed his jacket as he replied. "Yes- 
terday. How do you like it?" 

"You shouldn't ask me so soon. I haven't 
seen it all yet. What a sky. What delightful 
lights. That's a beautiful cloud. Oh, I see 
it now. How clever. What a stunning head." 

Eric looked up quickly. "Head, what head?" 

"Why, there in the cloud. Don't you see? 
Could that have occurred accidentally?" 

Eric picked up his palette and brushes as 
he vsaid: "It certainly did. I must paint it 
out." With a brush he touched the white 
upon the palette and then the yellow. He was 
about to change the shape of the cloud, then 
paused as he said: "How strange. Look, 
Rita, it is your head." His palette arm dropped 
to his side. "I think I will keep that." Rita 
moved a step nearer very quietly. 

"Shall we work?" 

In answer, Rita ran to concealment behind 
the screen. 

Eric put on a French peasant's gown which 
he wore while modeling. He removed the 
rags from the clay figure and prepared his 



A MODEL WIFE One Forty-One 

material by dampening and kneading. While 
he was making his preparations for work, Rita 
was doing the same. First one and then an- 
other shoe was heard as they were dropped 
upon the floor behind the screen. This was 
followed by one piece after another of the 
model's wearing apparel as she threw them to 
hang over the screen. 

Eric stepped back to look at the thermome- 
ter as he asked: "How is the room?" 

From behind the screen, Rita replied: "All 
right. Do you know, I think you are the only 
real artist? You paint a landscape, then you 
do something in clay, and then back you go 
to the easel to do a portrait, and they are all 
great. If they are not in the Salon, they are 
on some rich man's wall, which is just as 
good." 

The warmth of the appreciation caused a 
smile to creep over Eric's face. "Yes, I work 
as some smoke; a pipe now, a cigar then, and 
occasionally a cigarette. The change lends 
variety and consequent rest." 

"The draperies this morning?" 

"Yes, please. Is the robe there?" 

"I don't find it.'^ 

Eric stepped over to an old cedar chest and 
found the Grecian robe, which he threw over 
the screen with: "Here it is." 



One Forty-Two A MODEL WIFE 

"What a funny fellow you are, to compare 
your work with smoking. Why, I never saw 
you smoking." 

He picked up the pipe from where he had 
laid it upon the stand. "I never smoke while 
I work." 

"Judging from the amount of work you turn 
out, you don't smoke much." 

"Do you smoke?" 

"You never saw me." 

"Most models do." 

"Do they?" 

"Yes." 

Rita came from behind the screen and 
stepped upon the throne as she said : "I don't. 
Oh, I forgot my flower." 

Eric handed her a rose. The pose was em- 
blematic of simplicity. A large white lily had 
been used, but that feature of the work had 
been finished. It had pleased him to retain 
the pretty little compliment, so this morning 
he had provided a red rose. A beautiful big 
flower it was, too, and its fragrance filled the 
studio. 

Eric did not see Rita touch the rose to her 
lips. It was but a fleeting movement. 

Eric turned to arrange the pose. "The 
right foot is too far forward. The body a lit- 



A MODEL WIFE One Forty-Three 

tie straighter. There, good, just a minute; 
a touch here and there and this will be fin- 
ished." 

"Are you glad?" 

"I am always glad to finish things that sat- 
isfy me." 

"1 think it must be great to be a real artist." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes, producing something; something that 
lasts and has its place in the world. I am 
even proud of my small help in such work. 
That is why I am glad to be a model." 

"Do not underestimate your share in this 
and the other things you and I have been en- 
abled to create." 

"When mother and I came to Paris — we 
came abroad you know, so that I might study 
the languages — " 

"I knew it. Then — you are an American.'* 

"Of course." 

"But you speak French like a native." 

"Mother thought that was the right way to 
learn, so we came where we might converse 
with the natives. Mother's plans for me were 
— but when the reverses came and she died, I 
lost — I, — no one knows how much I lost. My 
mother used to speak of you often. That was 
before I first posed for you. She often spoke 



One Forty-Four A MODEL WIFE 

of the tenderness and fine feeling that she al- 
ways found in your work. She wondered often 
how you acquired your great skill. Oh, a 
paper just fell from your desk. I guess the 
draft disturbed it." 

"Oh, you are cold." 

"Not at all." 

Eric found the door closed, but the transom 
was open. He closed the transom and picked 
up the letter as he returned. "A letter I was 
writing to my mother. Let me read part of 
it to you. It answers, in a measure, your 
mother's question. *I still long for those days 
when you and I were pals. You are the best 
fellow and the best mother a fellow ever had. 
It is your knowledge, prompted by a desire to 
aid me that still exerts its influence over my 
life and my art. It was from you I learned 
faithfulness, truth and persistence. I learned 
life from you, my mother, who gave me life. 
I learned breadth from you as I learn bigness 
from the out of doors. Yours is a heart that 
knows no bounds and your love for me has 
given me my love for the beautiful in life, of 
which you, — you and one other, are my all 
in all.' " 

Eric folded and returned the letter to the 
desk. 



A MODEL WIFE One Forty-Five 

"How beautiful she must be — " 

"She is — Oh, you mean mother. Yes, beau- 
tiful. Did I never show you her picture? He 
took his watch out of his pocket and releasing 
the fob locket he opened and handed it to her. 

In taking the locket, Rita accidentally 
dropped it, and as it struck the floor the oppo- 
site side sprang open and exposed a miniature 
of her own head. "Why, there is my picture." 

Eric picked up the locket and again handed 
it to Rita. "Why, yes. Yours on one side and 
mother's on the other. Isn't that a good pic- 
ture of mother?" 

"It is the picture of a dear old lady — but 
this of me?" 

"Yes, I did that one day while you were pos- 
ing. You did not see. Was that stealing? 
Rita, how many times have you posed to me?" 

"This is the sixty-seventh day." 

"Sixty-seventh?" 

"Yes." 

"And you have been coming here — ?" 

"Eight months, tomorrow." 

"You are up on dates." 

"Some dates." 

"Rita, have you ever posed for Le Fere?" 

"Once." 

"Once?" 



One Forty-Six A MODEL WIFE 

"Yes, for about five minutes." 

"Le Fere is quick." 

"Very." 

"Please resume the pose." He went to the 
throne and arranged the draperies. He looked 
up into her eyes. "You are a queen." 

"Oh, no." 

"Yes, you are. You are an American, and 
to an American you are queen. May I speak 
to you, Rita? May I say to you all I — " 

She motioned to the screen. "Let me — 
first." 

"You would let me speak, then. Let me 
speak now. Rita, I love you. I love you, 
Rita; that's all I know. I love you." 

"Tell me that again." 

"I love you." 

"And I love you, my Eric, — I believe I do. 
If it is love that makes me think of you al- 
ways. If it is love that makes me know that 
it is wrong for me to think of you — that it is 
wrong to let you know, I think of you." 

"Why wrong?" I tell you I love you; that 
my greatest hope is, that you will be my wife." 

"Wife?" 

"My wife." 

"Say that again." 

"My model wife." 



A MODEL WIFE One Forty-Seven 

"My Eric, I never hoped to be so happy." 

"You darling; we will be married and sail 
for America." 

"My friend, my dearest and only friend ; you 
know that can never be. Listen : I have been 
a model — model to Rausch, Everett, Cailes, 
Van Pont, Le Fere—" 

"Le Fere for five minutes." 

"Ah, do you not think five minutes a very 
long time? Why, my Eric, let me tell you; 
for that five minutes he just stood and stared 
at me." 

"Yes?" 

"He then came to the throne and touched 
me, here." 

"Brute!" 

"Yes, brute; not artist, brute! I tried to 
jump away from the throne, but he grabbed 
me and called me: 'Little fool.' It seemed to 
me that he would crush the life out of me, 
when, luckily, through over-confidence in his 
own strength, I was allowed to break away. 
He tried to reach me again, but I was too 
quick. I ran to the screen. He would have 
followed me, but in a pocket behind the screen 
I had this." While speaking, Rita had gradu- 
ally moved to the screen, and reaching back, 
she produced a small revolver. "He did not 



One Forty-Eight A MODEL WIFE 

dare further. Then came his soft, persuasive 
argument. It was all in fun. I should not 
blame him for becoming infatuated with my 
beauty. 'Some women/ he said, 'have no right 
to be beautiful.' I shouldn't expect so much. 
He v/as only a mere man; and I, — I was only 
a model, an artist's model. Didn't I know 
what that meant? Why do artists pay such 
high prices for models? It was easy to see. 
Where was the model who was not proud, 
who did not boast that she was a little more 
to the artist than a mere model? All models 
were — . Oh, I cannot tell you. He made me 
know, then, that I could never have real love, 
to be a wife, — a — a mother. You see, my 
friend, I cannot do as you ask. It is not I, 
but you, v/ho must be considered. Your — " 
"Rita, dear, listen. Do you think art would 
be art if it could cheat woman out of her 
womanhood? Could art, the greatest charm 
of which is woman, rob woman of her purity 
to produce that charm? As you have said, I 
have painted many pictures that have been 
recognized as works of art. I have been suc- 
cessful as the world admits, but I would fore- 
go all the pleasures art and success have 
brought me to take in my arms the proof of 
your womanhood and my own manhood. 



A MODEL WIFE One Forty-Nine 

Rita, my models have been to me but models. 
I do not ask whether you have been more than 
model, I—" 

"Do ask it, my Eric, do ask it. You do not 
know how very mvich I desire to answer you 
that question. Do ask it, do." 

"I will ask it, my darling, but in my ov/n 
way. Will you be my wife?" 

A whispered, "I will," and a kiss was her 
ansv>/er. 

Sometime later Eric looked up and said: 
"I must finish my letter to mother. I have so 
much to tell her." 



One Fifty BE RIGHT 



BE RIGHT 



When fortune frowns, no ups, all downs, 
And ev'rything's gone to smash; 

Don't ever rave, stand up, be brave, 
And you will avoid the crash. 

'Tis by their might they dare do right. 

That many a battle's won 
By braver men, than five in ten, 

Of those who have faced a gun. 

Be not a knave, but be, just brave; 

Be right, when your race is run. 
Dishonest craft is only graft. 

When all has been said and done. 



